That Morning

THAT MORNING

That morning, when you wake to find

that something irreversible has happened

while you slept, and the world 

which once safely inhabited 

the middle distance is now both 

small enough to drop into a purse 

with a metallic clink and so beyond  

measure that were the stars to sink

their teeth into you it wouldn’t 

make a difference—when you can’t

decide if the whole gosh-darned point 

is that it’s all so deadly serious or if instead

we’re balanced on the silent edge

of a great joke’s turn, and all you can

do is focus all your attention on 

your next breath because neither laughing 

or crying seems an appropriate response—

when the sounds of morning are replaced

by the echo of their voices 

telling you it’s not that big a deal, 

and you can’t help but feel 

that maybe they’ve been right all along,

but if they’ve been right all along 

there’s nothing left to do but kill 

yourself, or them—when it all 

goes down that morning

and you consider turning back around

to crawl into bed or shaking your head

to disentangle the tendrils of the odd

dream you’re having, I don’t have any advice

for you. Still, I'll gladly give you this: 

a poem, which is a kind of presence, 

meaning at least you’re not alone.