No more talking
about the weather, a giant
dragonfly dangles
from the ceiling
inside a giant
library. Her services
are no longer needed. Justice
will prevail
or fail without her. It’s January—
other topics
can be scarce.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
REM Kiosk
A dream is only as true
as its recounting. Insert stalks
of wheatgrass embedded
in translucent partitions
for accent. An ocean
spilling forth on all sides
gets pulled inside
out to become a Midwestern
lake not frozen enough
to hold those images
of ice fishers under
glass. You shake
yourself awake
to make up
what you won’t remember
one hour into it.
Surreal Ocean
Tide rises from all sides—this surround
won’t bring back my father’s words of advice.
In a dream, I refuse to walk along the granite bluff
with my sisters—this is no return to Ireland. This is
what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution
at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.
Downtown Serenity Hour
Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like
a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me
through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit
W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures
me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts
and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but
this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds
only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.
They Call It Prohibition
I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.
Electrocution
To blame a rodent
for this disruption, this return
to the primitive,
is what I do
when singed mystery
holds no appeal. What about a snake
or hawk? Could be human
error—and into its portal
the soul just might come into view.
If only I didn’t blink it away.
Power Out Wednesday
A transformer explodes, a squirrel
dies, civil twilight crashes
into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits
for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left
hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide
the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner
that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.
Take No Heroes Hotel
Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs
the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story
lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies
of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below
erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.
Another Lyric Skyway
A real concert
harpist plays beneath
a giant atrium
sculpture with strings
attached. I’ve lived
all these years
with a mannequin—
not a marionette. I have
a cousin who mistakes live
women for the ones without
strings. Someone’s father
worked in a plastics factory
where they manufacture
the ones frozen
in poses. I can’t
draw one—but I could place
a cutout replica
in a jar and wait
to be surprised.
Tap Root
I will not ride
a horse down a busy city street,
won’t make it home
before dark. Sky drama
comes in many colors—iron and bronze
in this civil
twilight. And they sound
more brilliant
than I remember in December’s cold air.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 