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.
Bodies falls
from the sky, fingers
point, half-written
stories burn, no duende
has a chance
to spark with death
already landed.
The interrupting
cow doesn’t eat
meat or drink
milk or mean
to be so rude.
“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.
Opens
early to light
to spread it out longer
than any other—bleeding to
the night.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 