Volume 30, Number 2

I Was Sad This Morning And Now I’m Not

The day still ahead of me, I mourned every
wild animal trapped for our amusement: all
the snakes and bright birds, boxed, sold, not
understanding. I mourned every person waiting

to not be lonely anymore and understanding
the hopelessness of that wait. Even the sun
lighting the woolly edges of grey clouds—even
that seemed sad. He never apologizes. That’s

his secret,
 said someone on TV, and I couldn’t
stop thinking of cruelties: the manufacture
of armaments, the will to use them, braggarts
laughing with guns in their hands. I visited

my mother then. She can’t remember anything
but smiled when I told her I had to go home
and get some writing done. She wasn’t sad,
so I wasn’t either. She told me to watch out

for lunatics on the road and I told her I’m
Gloria Blanck’s daughter. The lunatics will
have to watch out for me.
 That's when my life
slid back over me like a sweater, and I was fine.

—Christine Potter