I must learn how
to describe each tiny movement
from solid green to a yellow brushed with red breaking
into orange without
these blocks of language. I turn up the volume
when this instrumental plays—sweet
guitar sings vocal lines, the human voice
at rest. Seductively rich
baritone be still
for these moments, while I work
on my lesson, a thing I am to practice
with my soul—
without a bridge.
Counts backwards
till she can’t breathe. She pretends
a message will appear
at zero
on a screen addressed to her
from you. A different kind
of marring,
you’ll be asking for it.
Hard on the lips,
her pressure increases
as your resistance
goes down. Exaltation.
What if I were the one
standing on a stage—you were
below it, looking up
at me? If it were as simple
as reversing a spring
trench coat, we would have pulled
those sleeves through
their fabric-framed sockets
by now. And, still, these arms
would not be long enough
to extend my real
offering to you.
If I were a museum,
I would adopt
the ampersand
before at. Swirls
of entanglement mean
more to me
than a spiraling into
sense of place.
If I can’t have home,
I’ll take the plural
loci, the many phases
of identity, the journeys
over arrival, options
over commitment—
the possibility
of leaning into infinity.
Hungover without
a drink, journals
are meant to be written—
not read. Why does she
keep them? Why toss them
out? She could donate them
to a sculptor
who might rehab their pages
into fiber and matter
for a piece
of public art. Would the characters
she described, reconstituted, dreamed
up
back then want
their say in the replacement
of their sketchy heads,
insubstantial torsos, free
floating feet, even sketchier
souls. Would they? Would
the new artist listen,
understand, care?
Doubtful. He would be
listening to his own
noise—not theirs, not hers.
She always relinquishes
her power, struggles
with steps to the greater
powerlessness.
It’s been years since she visited
the bonfire behind the old hotel,
since she was willing
to sacrifice a hero, or two,
for the sake
of someone’s sanity. Plain
garden variety walks on
solid ground. She’d be lying
if she denied
there were any new ones
to release into the communal
burn. Then again,
they are never
really hers to offer.
And she’s no hero, so no
self-sacrifice will
do. She keeps walking
down this steep hill
humming a tune
she thinks she made up.
You and I know she didn’t.
The first in the city
to have electric
lights. A hinge
to flex downtown
lane over lane flung
onto outdoor sculpture
with a cherry on
top. I’m at the bottom
of this brown hill
imagining a summer
evening: Civil
twilight and a great blue
heron—my current hero’s
plugging in
near the Dandelion
Fountain. He wouldn’t get too close
to the water. Weeds are wild
flowers with a bad reputation.
The way I build up,
demolish, recreate
my heroes, mine could be worse.
If I were
a typo, I wouldn’t want
to be
discovered. I would hide
in the middle
paragraph
in the middle
of an incomplete
thought You might create
me, but you’ll never know
me or the impact
I might have
on what they think
of you, never mind me.
I want to make a wish
at an artesian well. Take me
to the old comfort
station near the 125-year-old iron
footbridge. No longer providing relief
to men, women, children passing by,
it aerates the pond. Who will
aerate me?
From this curved history, I can see
a pond in transition—
half ice, half water freed
from the long arm
of Minnesota winter. I don’t need
a hug from that set
of limbs. I’ve wiggled out
of that passive
aggressive affair. Lately, I take
winter in layers, leave it
behind when the last chunk
dissolves to crack open
a warmer motion.
I no longer dread
seeing the old lover—he’s got nothing
on me these days. I know how
to remain unattached. I’m ready
to place my feet before the well,
to drop the coin in.
Cattails mashed
and embedded
in what’s left
of the ice shield
over the pond. Ducks
float in the free
flowing water, other birds
hop along those complex layers
of solid. I see
that same old wooden wagon
unhitched beside the iron
footbridge. The gardener’s back.
I’m circulating
the park, making decisions,
walking on.
A yellow cab double
parked, medium-sized U-Haul
behind it—I know
these getaways
too late, arrivals
too early. When moving in
becomes an art,
it’s time
to reconsider the vessel. Above
or below it, I just want
to crawl inside
the belly of someone’s home—yours?
Or, it could be mine.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 