The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,700 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 45 trips to carry that many people.
Untamed or unnamed, the tilt is in
her head—and a lock shuts
down forever to stop
the spread of invasive
species up
river. Forever is
a long time to fight the ambitions
of fish. She’ll find the way
to unburden her own.
Now I want to tell you something
about what? I don’t know
how to speak in tongues. I try
to be honest. But the color
blue comes out first. What the hell
ain’t it about? Everything
worshipped—including stuffed monkeys—
leads to silence or ink drawings of stolen crutches.
The window
seat is the aisle
seat. It’s too damn small. Claustrophobia
can be triggered
at any moment. Am I
the only one
who heard you
expose that moment
a young woman jumps
off
a moving
merry-go-round
to change her life? An island known
for brass rings. But now it’s the back
of a larger jet, not
a bus. And the word
turbulence is a curse. Gravel
roads and potholes
in the sky over
Ohio and Wisconsin. No,
it must be the Great
Lakes. Each
and every one. And rivers
that flow too slowly
or not at all. You belted out
the question:
“Is it Mine?” There was nothing
there to be yours
yet. When there was,
you didn’t want it.
(Did I?) And then
it was gone. Name it. Go
ahead. Name.
It. I
dare you. And
I will not offer
suggestions. And
once named, you can
forget it—me. Yeah,
thought so. Descending
over the Mississippi, a landing
so smooth.
Ambidextrous from
now on. There will be
awkward days. She’s too
in the groove. Do you
want to help her
realign her pelvis? Take
this broomstick. Start there. Don’t forget
to activate her
brand of narcissism
typically found in a meadow
hemming in woods she knows
only in daydreams.
She could return to the man
who dances with praying
mantises. Or, to the water—colder
on the second day. Or,
another man
she hasn’t spoken to
in over 20 years. She sees him—does he
see her? She imagines
how she might reinvent
his gaze. How he would look
underwater when the ocean
has calmed. Or, what he’d do
if a fox started following him.
Now she doesn’t even know
which man she means.
It’s all a wild ride
that begins in a dinghy
her uncle named after her.
A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean
in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out
of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief
for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air
you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.
Long white to black strand
of hair trapped in the hinge
of an airplane tray
table in its upright
position. Back on
land, crickets don’t use
their legs to chirp. They use
their wings. I have none, I hear
nothing over this city din.
She won’t say
a word to break
the spell
of bewilderment
she’s waited
so patiently
to be
under. Rarely
does she want
to cast her own.
Her quiet presence
looms long
and lean—a shadow
cast nearing civil
twilight. Forty years
since she’s stood
before or beside
me, and still
I remember her
long hair the color
of unground coffee
beans. Her bangs. The fresh
laundered scent
she would leave behind
as she rode off on
her banana seat
bicycle through those wooded trails
behind our row
of houses. Some whispers
echo longer
into silver brilliance
than any shrill yelp
of a peacock at large.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 