As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Once I’ve driven those day
dreams of a dead man
(almost my lover) off the dirt
road, I lay down
on cool stone
to sleep. And dream of you,
a living man
(never my lover). I don’t control
stories that get told
while I sleep. Lyric
never narrative. A complicated card
game I couldn’t play,
I give up and walk down bent
corridors with you
looking back
at me. Is it still there—
that precious
metal band? I can’t see
your left hand.
Into the labyrinth—
a kiss. I wake
to imprint this sweet
consolation prize
on the day.
Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.
Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.
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)
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.
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.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 