No one leaves
the hoist up for her. No
need. She’s not going to
go
into the whole 300 versus
500 feet. Just keep back. On foot
it’s easy to forget the doom
to decay eager. This rhythm is the same one
she picked up near the Rock River
before she could speak.
And those rocks we would slip
off come high
tide. Your face drawn
with a cane in all that blown
sand. The painful
part is not being able
to carry things.
Analepsis is my burden, prolepsis
yours. Together,
we drop
to our knees
relieved to have this cold
opening to ourselves.
More rain and seldom
seen plastic artifacts
possess another route
she takes in laughter—listening
to Dylan does it
every time. If
she had more energy,
she would find the source
of all tears. A crystal
lake miles north, surrounded
by willows and a promise
weather dutifully keeps.
She almost wishes it would
just do it—just snow.
(Do I mention the leopard
skin pill box hat here? Or not.)
This room is for music,
that one for shouting
on the fall down.
That’s how I remember it,
how I tried to keep it
straight. But when I got blurry,
I may have released
my vocal chords wrong—a coloring
outside the lines. A tiny bird darts in
and out
of the retro deco
signage above the south-facing front
door. It’s locked. No more
food. One more night
of music in this room,
shouting in that. Tomorrow
the construction site wrapped thick
with plastic rattling
a gentle November death
breath will swallow it
whole. And that’s that.
A barnacle clings
to its host, a kiss-up,
annoying to distraction.
A barnacle hugging
its rocks, the foundation
beds its shore.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 