Another Night at Sea Level
On the third day, I wrote to you about the sky, its elastic way of stretching so ocean-wide that the only way to name it was to compare it to Montana’s. Lately, the sky is a ceiling I wake to: broad & blank & stubborn, stiff at the edges like a fever cloth wrung out & gone cold in the night, damp with the wicking of latent ache. But tonight I was walking home along the coastline & caught the huge moon in my throat. There’s a man somewhere on the planet who has been to that moon, who has stepped out of that sky, & will never sleep the same because of it. Will always be sad or feel small, or wonder how it is a person can be a person, if being a person is worrying about things; whose eyes cannot see what things are, but only the slightness of them. I think of writing to you in this way—welcoming the adventure of it— & of being wrecked proper, of being ruined.
From Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street, 2014). Copyright © 2014 by Meg Day. Used with the permission of the author.
Meg Day is the author of Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street, 2014), winner of the Barrow Street Press Poetry Prize and the Publishing Triangle’s 2015 Audre Lorde Award. She lives in Pennsylvania.
Date Published: 2017-12-04
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/another-night-sea-level