August, 1945
On thursday the ninth,
my china fell from its hooks.
My jar of teas spilled onto the floor
and my spoon toppled from its saucer.
The pebbles I’d arranged on the shelf
fell quickly but in sequence onto new tiles,
and the light leaked from my photographs.
All of the windows cracked like nutshells.
The curtains fluttered like ball gowns,
then lifted for invisible can-can legs.
The door opened and then kept going
and the upstairs became a basement
and my hair blew across my face
and my eardrums burst.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
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