She isn’t going to tell
you or your brother
what she’s doing
with your other brother.
She doesn’t want
to know what you think
of her sister, or
what you plan to do
with her cousin.
She’s writing a book
without faces, without
links to anything
save
the fence she hopes
to break through.
An incurable addiction
to the image
that comes on strong,
without warning—blue
bottles emptied of their rose
water gather light
upon a sill. A vine
still holding its dried leaves
tight clings to the window
in the dead
of winter not so dead. Stacks
of CDs cover the clear plastic
lid over a turntable. Everything
collects dust when ignored—especially
the soul.
If she were shooting
photos day
by day, she would look
for you in two-way skyway
motion, would need to
actually see you, then find
a way to take your image
without being exposed.
Impossible. You’re nowhere
near here. Not yet. Not ever
going to take cover
on this second floor winter
salvation. No, she has it
too easy—
this corner table, this pen,
that imagination, the taking
a network of secret lines.
To be in motion and
at rest over ice, to walk
and talk of the prime
mover and still not believe is
to be without
property, untaxed, free to choose
temperance or the end
of grace in fits and starts.
If she were to hide a circle
poem inside an ivy
covered tree, she might not leave
any coordinates, map, unattended
bag. She might choose the inside
of a piano for her next
cache, might decide to drop
a bomb on the destination nearest
your heart.
Half page ads peddle faith
in 45-minute segments
by the hour on two campuses.
And a website to worship. A faltered blizzard
reminds her of her own faith—how
it works better
without a forecast, without
a Twitter account. Not
a without—a within.
Residue cadence over steel,
chilled, is a drink
she would sip
on cold nights to remind
him how she could look
when not trying
to be so permanent. The seep
continues beneath
frozen surfaces—silently.
A trough to fill
with sand and water. An army
to protect our beeswax
block of candle. The thing itself
is worth saving
till that moment
our wick heads appear
to coax relief
from concentrating
too much before
dinner guests arrive, their boots
caked in glorious earth.
A nose gets cut. Bandaged.
His nose. Not for me
to know how. He does bleed
real blood to match
the true color of his song.
I don’t know how. All bodies
frighten me
with their precious mechanisms.
The way they break down—
His, mine. It can be
too much to bear. My desire
drains blue.
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 