No smudge for me.
I don’t succumb to that
ritual anymore. I like
to keep my soul
anonymous.
I’ve forgotten how to walk
down city sidewalks marked
on the outside.
What if someone calls
my name before
I’m ready? I see one, then two,
then remember. A film
maker calls himself
a freak for wearing a perfect cross
shape. But mine were always
spills—stamping
my forehead off center.
Don’t cut your hair, pull a cap
over the lengthening. Invoke
one ghost and two
other legends still kicking
around what haunts them
at night when stairs are steep,
a cellar two stories deep. Narrative
or none, consistent not
likely, they do what they want. I
see you do too and so much younger. You
may catch up to the age
of your soul, but not yet.
Without sound, how
do I know
what you mean
when you write
the letter K, when
you sign off with a see
you later? How
much later? I can’t see
your face—but you
never did give away much
with your eyes. Only
the tone holding
up or forcing down
the timbre in your voice
could begin to reveal
what I wish to know.
She isn’t going to tell
you or your brother
what she’s doing
with your other brother.
She doesn’t want
to know what you think
of her sister, or
what you plan to do
with her cousin.
She’s writing a book
without faces, without
links to anything
save
the fence she hopes
to break through.
An incurable addiction
to the image
that comes on strong,
without warning—blue
bottles emptied of their rose
water gather light
upon a sill. A vine
still holding its dried leaves
tight clings to the window
in the dead
of winter not so dead. Stacks
of CDs cover the clear plastic
lid over a turntable. Everything
collects dust when ignored—especially
the soul.
She dreams of a concrete
image, and it arises naked
to settle upon her
shoulders—an invisible vibration
ready to be captured
inside a bell.
I am discarded ice
sculpture. Placed
alongside a loading
dock outside the rail
corridor, I will not melt
this far north. I’m a swan,
pedestal, easel-shaped. I’m
what’s left after a party
where I might have been
the center
of attention, or highly visible
aside. Now I am what you see
when you escape out the back—or
just dream of it
while taking another drag.
A day later, what was buried
truth in subconscious ruts
has dissolved into a residue
debate: Did she? She didn’t—
did she? Each time she has one,
she’s never in the actual
act. It’s done. She’s left
with only mind-altering
denial—a hollow clanking
in her purse.
Once sprung, it builds
its own roads. She may dig
detours with a felt
tip. She might believe
she’s in control.
And she could claim
credit for the resulting map.
But it’s never complete
till you arrive
(with you over there, and you,
all of you) to mess
with the lines.
Long or short, nothing
must be out of place. Clipped
corners in love
with a raked center. The scent
of six o’clock bells
in the cold dark must trail
off just so. Just so
this mouth doesn’t lose
its absolute shape.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 