Sandusky is not merely amusement, not merely
a beer garden, bathhouse, dance
floor where the first lover
would begin to break
my hope over cold water. Edging Lake Erie,
a peninsula not an island
after all, Ohio’s tendency for hills. I stay away
to prevent roller coaster motion
sickness—we’re never cured
from the disease
of memory. What we get
if we’re very lucky, and the light
is with us, is
a daily reprieve from our inner ear’s relentless imbalance.
She believes she can stand tall against shadow,
affect the light
into afternoon, identify the stone
figure staring at her as she turns a corner
to enter
another establishment
old as sin. It could be
hers—wrapped into the dirty
canopy fabric above the narrow door.
* The title comes from the Preface to Luc Sante’s Low Life.
One of those downpours, it falls
hard and fast and is gone
before city gulls reach the south quays. No rainbow.
Wrong time of day. The smallest
of Calatrava’s bridges, a steel white winged bird
poised to take flight
over the Liffey. And she is
standing still, at the midway
point, her head bare and bowing forward. Searching
for a lost red scarf, she begins to let go
real tears, the way those embedded glass lights
have been smashed by vandals or too many cars rushing by.
As I admire water
falls as art, I lose
my anxious desire
for a chance
encounter with you. I never forgot you. Mainly scaffolding,
pumps, and piping, physics of the tangible
after inebriation splashes
into the river
of our souls. I know you
had one. Did you know
too? The East River is not really a river—
it’s a strait. Did we really converge
in a place where fresh and salt meet?
Did we meet at all? Lost in the mist
of my quiet life, I would not hear,
or see you, if you did approach behind me
till that empty basin
of a voice was spilling sound
through the air I breathe.
What do you think of this?
I would try to ignore what I think
I recognize because a quiet life requires
uninterrupted mesh
with holes to protect whatever might swim
into the loner’s intake filter pool. Fish might not penetrate
the fabric, but I can’t resist—I turn. There
you would be well
into midlife, like me. It wasn’t you,
it was the City I left
to catch my breath for 18 years.
Woman, is that you? Man, is that you?
Where we once moved in the dark
toward young urgency striking off
the planes of our bodies, we would now stand still,
stone pillars. The Brooklyn Bridge has sprung a leak, the world
is turning in
on itself. Wind trumps water, but not gravity. Water sways on its fall
below concrete and steel and wood. And still it’s the water
I bet my life on.
Plaster chipped away to expose a topography
of floral lakes, this wall
becomes a religion
I might practice in a foreign land.
(virtually overheard poem from www.blogcatalog.com)
I don’t have time in my life. I live next to scarcity—
what a cold wake-up blast. One of the biggest,
clean bodies
of water,
and I don’t have a rubber duck.
I am the infamous
queen of bubbles and essential
oils, conserving my next
5-10 minutes to improve
circulation. You must be ashamed to love
luxuriating in aversion. The thought
of just sitting there
in my own filth. Haven’t you thought
about that? All my water
comes from top quality ardor,
diverted into flowerbeds
and landscaping
by Jacuzzi jets. I can’t stand
lavender and eucalyptus.
Give me palpitations in the evening
before I sleep. I love soaking,
and I like to be greasy. I mean,
to tone the skin, make my hair shinier.
Other activities can be enjoyable
in the tub. Someone stole
my planet, and it really doesn’t matter.
I have a huge, open mouth
that I keep fresh, for an American anyway. But
baths don’t cover me
like they used to. Turns out,
I’m the delicate type.
I can only be dry-cleaned,
and that explains everything.
On a grayscale
from blizzard to moonless
night, she rates you scattered
clouds and the smiling bright
new 35W Bridge.
Drain the doubt, using
a sharp knife, cut it into bite-size pieces.
Place the divided up doubt
in a shallow non-metallic dish.
Mix together the garlic, bad choices, and sweet
flavored self-destruction
and drizzle over the doubt. Toss
well to coat each piece
and set aside with your prejudices
to marinate at least 20 years.
Meanwhile, heat the oil of obsession
in a large pre-heated inferno.
Add the slices of your peeled soul to the pit
and stir-fry over a high
heat until they brown and become
crispy. Remove the sliced soul with a slotted heart-
shaped spoon and drain on absorbent lost love
letters. Add the doubt to the hot oil
and stir-fry for about 5
breaths. Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the oil
in the world. Add the descent
into darkness
and stir-fry for 2-3 millennia,
or until it has softened.
Return the doubt and sliced soul
to the inferno and heat to the core,
stirring occasionally. Drizzle with desperation. Transfer
to slightly chipped serving plates and serve
immediately. If you are in a hurry,
buy ready-marinated doubt
from your local market. Either way, record the recipe
and please pass it on.
Let’s go another day,
awakening toward night
to make the perfect arc
of ourselves diving
into a warm bay.
A steady stroke,
side by side, above
strong, hands ready
to reach from the dock
to take both of us
before we weaken too much.
Somewhere between Columbus and Milwaukee someone got caught
between making good time
and death. We don’t see it,
when our double-decker train stops
in the middle of
nowhere. Could be Spain 1985. Passengers rush into the caboose
to get between the scene
of the accident
and their own lives. A flat
bed truck clipped, a driver without surface
wounds. Our conductor calmly checks the cars
for damage, calmly requests
that doors and windows remain closed
to keep out a host
of flies in between thriving
and retired. I remember there being a death
without betweens—Kokomo, Indiana, 1972. A monsignor, all the way blown away,
they say, whiskey bottle
in one hand, drove his car through a level
rail crossing, half-barrier gate down, red
lights flashing, warning bell chiming.
That train whistle must have moaned
a haunting response. The long-long-short-long of it
a broken down code.
It must have been instant. Don’t remember
what happened to that train—no passengers aboard,
only what gets freighted into the night.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 