Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
Who names their son
Otis? Since
the Beatles, who forgets
where to look
for the sun? Since Big
Star, who’s got it
worse than December
boys? Elevator
music gets this December
girl down.
It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs
over an outdoor
sconce. Week after
week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears
a recording of her own
voice and wonders who
might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.
She will learn
how to locate her
own duende,
so she won’t
have to borrow
yours anymore. And now
she gets
home before dark.
Corsages not corsets. Shawls
over the Venus
de Milo. Motel
not hotel. Architect over
poet. Defect without
sheepdogs or
a diaspora.
A clock,
a kite, or a barn. One
last busy signal
before the station
wagon rolls over another
gravel road off
the map. No one shouts
“caryatid”—even
when hitchhikers with 2x4s
return, mumbling,
“It’s just a game.”
In bars, on street corners, along
green hill campuses, in dark
corners beneath
office towers, on trains, beside
zoos, buried deep
below backyards, above a murder
of crows, in the palm
of her hand.
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
Flashing
red and white light
above wild clay cliffs
will fade to memory without
rescue.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 