Sandusky is not merely amusement, not merely
a beer garden, bathhouse, dance
floor where the first lover
would begin to break
my hope over cold water. Edging Lake Erie,
a peninsula not an island
after all, Ohio’s tendency for hills. I stay away
to prevent roller coaster motion
sickness—we’re never cured
from the disease
of memory. What we get
if we’re very lucky, and the light
is with us, is
a daily reprieve from our inner ear’s relentless imbalance.
She believes she can stand tall against shadow,
affect the light
into afternoon, identify the stone
figure staring at her as she turns a corner
to enter
another establishment
old as sin. It could be
hers—wrapped into the dirty
canopy fabric above the narrow door.
* The title comes from the Preface to Luc Sante’s Low Life.
On a grayscale
from blizzard to moonless
night, she rates you scattered
clouds and the smiling bright
new 35W Bridge.
I swore I would never do this, but here I am trying to start a blog using my little day poems. Here’s one from a couple of months ago.
Plectra
(Day 2,322)
Everything vibrates
whether we admit it
or not. The piano
is a percussive instrument
I could not play
very well—the harpsichord
is plucked like a child
from a secure sleep
into male and female
shouts going to different lengths
and depths to be
heard. No one was listening. A rock
glass smashing against a wooden step,
a china vase shattering
against a windshield, impervious
to the drama. When all motion stops,
and the permanent split is identified
and legally documented,
vibrations carry on elsewhere.
I only played the baroque instrument
once—I was that child.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 