No more illusions of steering
this dinghy ashore in the storm.
It’s going to rock; I’m going to remain
the name on its port side. It won’t fade away.
Month: December 2014
Happy Birthday
A skyway morning
to you. Did you
invent it?
Not the skyway,
not the morning,
the night.
A silk green cigar
smoking jacket, striped
trousers cut off
below the knees, wind
chill kind of evening.
I would ask
your mother what time
of day you arrived
if I met her.
They have the same
name. Our mothers.
Remember that part.
2014 in review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,700 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 45 trips to carry that many people.
Face
Windows in an exposed brick wall leave her
suspicious. Was there another
floor in here once? Guessing about before
is her new purpose.
And she believes
in ghosts and sprites and even a mermaid
that might swim beneath floor boards
of an old fish-packing plant on the end
of a wharf. Those photos
mounted on its façade are real.
Eva, Mary, Bea, Frances—you are
real. And Almeda, your image
destroyed by storms crashing
into the harbor, you are beyond.
A Mob
Or, sea of meerkats
in the middle
of Times Square. No,
scratch that. Lawn
chairs floating
over a dying lake. Sentries
fold into their own
whispers. Who
will protect
the walkers from
the strollers from
those other
peripatetic clans? I’ve been here
before. Or, maybe not. December
morning fog dampens
and loosens my hold
on some bad lines
from a mediocre movie.
The title has already drifted off.
Another Boat in a Fog May Not Be Lonely
The corner where two
windows meet. The view
from a dark room
onto a fog-dampened
night. Stories
dissolve when they hit
pavement, or never get exposed
to atmosphere at all. It stings
to be so poised
to burst forth
in a voice soft
and deep, but to be
the one holding back
exquisite blackness
with a candle flame
that laps up
fear and air
till someone’s lover
returns. A woman’s true
laughter will float on
still water
to break through
soot and other romantic
toxins falling out.
Called Saudade
Did I invent
you? A mirage
of a mural painted
on the side
of a bus. Airstream—not
Greyhound, VW, Trailways, twinkle, diesel,
hybrid, double
decker, or magic. To miss
an imaginary friend, to become
jealous of her lovers
is to wear down
a postcard of Lisbon
in the 50s before
I was born. Did you
imagine me this far
down the dirt
road in the fog?
Walking the Boards
We speak in waves
over particles of breath,
briny breathing,
this boardwalk holds up
more than it will tell.
It’s the simple words
in solid greens, gray blues,
the color of sand after it rains,
it’s these that endure
in the moon’s wake. Without
a single word, we still could
talk as we walk,
tide coming in,
using the language
hidden in the dunes.
Low Profile
In my dream the dead console
the living about others
who may have died. Rumors
turn a 60s ranch brick house
into a warren of hidden
phobias—a different one
for each room. Fear of
wool, not cotton wool, brings her
to the farthest corner
of the cellar where a sneeze
is just a sneeze. And it is you,
my dear friend, who are really gone.
That other friend left
my life but lives on
in another warren on another island
with his superconductors and scattering waves.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 