When she who is a cowlick
becomes a main character in high anxiety
drama playing through intersections, it’s time
to remove all straight lines, time
to take the long way home on foot.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
The Sighting
Cold trapped beneath
redwoods outside
the Henry Miller Memorial
Library doesn’t deter me
from standing against evening grain
to see you straight
ahead performing. I know that sound
of aching beauty won’t last. I only wish
those graceful branches could
suspend
the deep wails
from your blues harp the way
these trees, those mountains, the rocks, that ocean hold
steady. You pack up
your guitars and you’re gone
down Highway One. I don’t see you
drive away, but I know
I can feel the air stir
from notes dropping
around substantial roots.
In a Serious Room
“Waiting like a longbodied emaciated Modigliani surrealist woman in a serious room.”
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
She who passes
the art test will be cursed
with elongated worry—the weight
of aluminum confused
with its atomic
number 13. She never believed
a number could sink her
dream. Has not encountered quick
sand, is not willing to take
the risk. She takes high
bridges over vehicles to knock
the wind from her diaphragm
of fear, pauses abnormally long
before crossing
any street. Then she runs a quick
rodent race across, laughing
all the way
at herself. She knows how
to do that—has been
doing it for years.
Even as she prepares her face
for that stranger she believes
would catch her before
she spilled over a cliff,
she giggles at the distortion
in the mirror.
Medium High
“Poetry doesn’t know:
The air conditioner
Not in use in winter
Is like my hopes—
Half in, half out.”
—Jack Kerouac, from “Richmond Hill Blues” (Book of Blues)
I have no air
conditioner. No
dishwasher. I have no washing
machine. I am half
in, half out—don’t
take pity on me
because I don’t cook
down suburban roads
in an SUV. I want no mercy
meals from anyone—
not even Kerouac. He’s
dead. I am sitting in
my own lap
topped to wait
for the right moment
to cast a warm glow.
Visit
To climb this side
of a grassy knoll in platform
heels, to find relief
in the reliable
presence of a Noguchi
sculpture outdoors
in the Midwest, to not get lost
in America, is to be
this alone
on wooden planks unafraid
of those who barrel through,
of a sunset she can’t
quite see. It is to fear only
the absence
she recognizes in trees’
fluttering spiked leaves.
Not Really a Dirge
When gulls and loons take over the wish
bone
tree branch anchored in a river grave,
when yesterday means to
widow
otherwise, then we’ll be turtles
ready
to issue a forwarding
address through a break
in the current.
Death of Scale Figures
Flip-flopping between Kerouac,
Miller, Jeffers, Ferlinghetti, and me, she
seeks an answer
to her female question:
Why!
It’s a zigzag route—a skyway
network with real weather
leaking in. She takes it
again and again: bank
to bank, civil
dawn to civil
dusk, Atlantic
to Pacific, instrumental
to spoken
word, digital
to analog, fold-out
to GPS, root
cellar to high
rise green
roof, concave
to convex, at rest
to in motion, addiction
to rejection, black
butterfly to ancient
barnacle, female
to male—what was she thinking
asking them to ask me? She should have
left it at the river. Either side
of the falls would do.
Response to the 55th Chorus
“I also have all space
And St Louis too
Light follows rivers
I do too
Light fades, I pass.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 55th Chorus of “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues)
If this were a poker game,
I would be out
by now. I would be
reflecting on the morning
heron in the stream
between little lake
and wetland infill. Would be
a reflection
of myself on tip toes
hoping to see over
the Hennepin Avenue Bridge
rail to the pull
of the big river
as it takes all the space
it needs to spread
these northern myths
down Saint Louis way.
I would be out and free
to gamble away
another sunset.
Meniscus
Hours the color of quarry
beds, a walk that gets extended because of a need to stitch
the river
to her breath, she calculates how long
it will take
for the fragrance of rose
water to reach the bottom. She wishes it would stay longer
on her skin—might as well get
the dive over with.
Off Season
Hollow women seek distractions
in you. Numbed
into summer is no way
to look at the moon
each night. That hill won’t hold
all these heavy
limbs and lids. I’ll be the one
to rebel—I don’t want
to be distracted. Let me suck
sustenance from soma goblets
before another civil dawn.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 