It was not my choice
to collapse, says
the bridge in pieces
on the west
bank. A strip
of purple light
strikes a pose
across her face. And
she wonders
how it feels to drop
guilt so easily
on vacant land.
Month: July 2012
Emerald Coat
She only hugs me
tighter when the wind picks up
fear and tosses it wickedly
through early fall air. I am proud
to say my hue draws
attention. She blushes
and says thank you as if
they were complimenting her, as if
it were her radiant skin
brightening up the morning. But
she can talk—I can’t. So
there’s that.
Without Words
Ready? I couldn’t be
more so. Bronze and
hollowed out. A representation
of a shell to protect
living flesh from otherworldly
showers, I live
in imagination. My darkened
green sleeves peering
through heavy
snow—a figment of a woman’s
realized. Disembodied
lips and an armless mannequin
pillar dance with me
on marble over grass. Who’s
watching? Everyone—and
I am cleansed.
(Inspired by Judith Shea’s sculpture of the same name)
My Perch
I am that fly
on the wall—less
interested in what they are saying
about the arrogance
of that bartender, the scandal
brewing about his niece. More
concerned that the girl
in the red dress
will turn my wall into a sliding
glass door to open
or lean against
with silent longing.
The Thrummed
I’m the one he made first. Still leaning
against an unpainted wall and unstrung
in his mind. Far
from perfect, my curves are a first try. But
he finished me
well. And I’m a hit
at campfires deep
in eastern New York forests.
Up Here
A sculpture outside
another restaurant
that didn’t make it
celebrates a robust
dance in bronze. Limbs
will support a partner’s need
to cry beneath clouds.
Will they break
now or tonight
when reminiscing has begun?
Whose weather will make
the better spin? Some cities
may tie.
Natural Climbers
Straw was a factor
in his fall. No one drowned
in the river
that day. No more bridges
collapsed
that year. Hay is for
the rest of the time
he considers descent.
Wheel
“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”
― Saint Francis of Assisi
She wants to be
the one who creates
art without using
her hands—wants to be
all heart. When she gets
what she wants, it’s time
to recalibrate
the colors—blue for logic,
green for emotion, yellow
for rigor, red
for everything else.
Polaroid
How many times
will he pose
for photographs before the word
simplicity
settles in? Never is a long time
to wait
for hot winds
to subside, for another image
to self-develop.
Hunger Bay
A food strike
won’t bring back
the words he lost
in mystery’s high
tide. Non-verbal
communication is
an art she hopes
to learn before nothing
washes ashore.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 