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.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 