Into the marsh go
questions of origin. Answers
rarely come out.
To name
a place is to be so bold
as to believe
in harnessing habitats
for one’s own. At least
as long as it takes
for a new map
to be drawn and published.
I prefer to believe
in the unfolding
and refolding
of lyric terrains—they sing
for themselves.
Welcome to the inn
where no reservations are taken, where
possession is one quarter, obsession
one more,
the other half
a lifetime spent designing the perfect
room where relinquishment adorns
each and every square foot of space
to walk
away from each and every hero
you took, she took, he took,
we all took,
save ourselves. Welcome
to the color
of the first suit you swam in,
to the sound
of the first dive you performed. Welcome
to the taste
of the first sea scallop you craved, to the touch
of the first porch
you danced upon—it is,
always was,
The Take No Heroes Hotel
where we belong.
Release me
from these lucid dreams. The more
I try to control the mind
toward a reencounter with you in a garden
level coffee bar, the less
I know about sleeping
flowers on this bluff
overlooking the confluence
of two rivers. What gets tended
in the dark could grow
into more than what I believe, a grace
over dogma rising
from sandy soil. I am carrying fear
in a basket my ancestral women transported
with time on their heads, by turns, to reach the big
river, to spill
the contents into turbulent waters,
to no longer believe in
the terror of the flood, the promise
of drought. So far, I am not
balancing it
on my head, but on my left hip
below the heart. I’m still hoping
you’ll catch my right
to pull me into your current, to take everything
from me, so I have nothing left
to drop.
The more she intends
to appear, the less
likely she will. Her
disorder does not translate
well. This is not commentary, this is
fear. She tricks herself into
showing up for the next
inhale, then the exhale will
follow, no questions asked. Except
one. An aside.
That she could define the sacred place inside her architecture of breathing,
that she could steal her father’s Old Head cave—naturally programmed with thick
Irish grass to cushion vistas of the Irish Sea—
that she could claim even one piece of rock as her own
to build a chapel for her own non-conformity,
would be her attention to structure,
would be her proposal to the world,
would be her physical presence
inside a hallowed ground where there are
no lines, no dimensions, only
the exquisite knowing of a spot
where she, like seamen before her,
would go. She would go
to rest her body, to forget it, to uncover
in the rubble of Earth’s design,
souls lost, souls renewed,
a storm pushing so many
waves into the cave, etching
its remarkably evolved design
no human hand could replicate.
You are my laughing phoenix,
I am yours.
Our cackling woke the dead.
Endlessly we cracked jokes
waiting for the fire engines (not red)
to arrive.
No, wait! Hurry! Get back
inside. Let the smoke
choke us out of five hundred years’
worth of played-out puns.
Six hundred too many Arabian nights
have us cracked up under the moon.
Reduced to ashes, we could ask to be blood-red,
winged beauties next to one another
drying feathers forever in the desert.
But you would not reinvent yourself
with me. For me,
the ashes scatter irreverently. For you,
tradition’s fire in the belly burns
as you wait for ladders and hoses.
Dry as the skin of wakened dead,
the puns will reduce me
to tears for five hundred or so
more years. Unless, of course,
you weren’t my last,
laughing one.
A thirty-minute measure
of time to get it done.
She must pave the road from town center
to rain puddle is a swimming hole
for her imaginary neighborhood. It’s time
to get it done. Their world, her creation,
is a cul-de-sac
of beach sand transported
by huge mechanical shovels, not
the wind. It’s time, before
she can no longer tell the difference
between the road and ditch,
to get it done. Why play
out here, her mother has asked,
when the ocean is just up the path
continuously slowly
hazarding the screened-in front
porch. But her mother just doesn’t get it.
It’s time, here in the back, to get it done. It’s not
about match box cars with real working door hinges
and tiny treaded tires. Any doll
she owns would be out of scale.
So the people of the neighborhood are invisible,
but no less in need
of roadways, driveways, articulated floor plans
for their homes. From where they live, she can’t see
East Chop or West Chop Light. But she can almost hear
the salt rumble on, miniature bay wave
tucking into itself. What gets trapped
in the air might preserve the village, or
it might rain. She doesn’t take chances—it’s time to get it done
before the bare red bulb lights up the back porch.
Plaster chipped away to expose a topography
of floral lakes, this wall
becomes a religion
I might practice in a foreign land.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 