Polka-dotted purple martin
hotels create symmetry for one
home not far
from Retreat Drive. A warm
Sunday morning late
November south
of the lake by many miles.
I don’t really know where I am—
only that I’m not framing my own
home, am still hoping
to spend one night in a hotel
in my own town.
Art is like a sponge. No,
that’s not it. If
it were, then the ocean
would protect muses
till they were ready. Then,
discipline would float
more than it does.
If I’m going to talk
about you, I better cut
every other word
in half to see if
the reflection of your cable stays
in the river floats, or
disintegrates
under scrutiny
of a thousand pairs
of headlight eyes.
A pause in yellow.
She considers turmeric
gold, strands of hair
silver, the burden of living
is always bronze. She considers it
a relief
to put change on the table
and walk on.
A bluff that doesn’t overlook
water, pot holes sink
into view overnight.
When I calculate distance
too literally, I begin
to see only a stranger
who grasps at straight lines,
begin to believe in
only their edges.
I’m not starting, not
stopping, merely counter-balancing
with these dollar coins
that perform revelry
in my pocket without a conductor.
No one leaves
the hoist up for her. No
need. She’s not going to
go
into the whole 300 versus
500 feet. Just keep back. On foot
it’s easy to forget the doom
to decay eager. This rhythm is the same one
she picked up near the Rock River
before she could speak.
And those rocks we would slip
off come high
tide. Your face drawn
with a cane in all that blown
sand. The painful
part is not being able
to carry things.
Analepsis is my burden, prolepsis
yours. Together,
we drop
to our knees
relieved to have this cold
opening to ourselves.
The bees are dying. No one knows
why. Saying hello as you roll
away does nothing
to clear away this rain.
The beekeeper rarely speaks,
his voice cracks from disuse. I resist
filling in his blanks. They are not
blank, but beveled
with premonition. Lightning
could destroy the hive. But that’s not it.
And if it was, you still wouldn’t stand still
long enough to take anyone’s advice.
She collects all the fear
she has gathered for 21 years,
puts it in a jar and seals it tight,
drops the jar into
the drink. Without it,
her days begin to count.
I need you tonight,
moon, am collapsing in
the curve of you. I found
a wrench in the street this morning.
I need you tonight,
throwing tools
(I am afraid to use)
before me, am reaching to cradle
my own knees—
bruised by misjudgment.
These arms, these fingers are too
stiff. Right tighter, left
looser, bolts land
arranged in a pattern. I found
it could help
reckon through clouds,
stars aligning behind.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 