Too distracted
to remember to mourn
the death
of romance
in her tale as told
by the most unreliable
narrator. Eyes
that see beyond
any field
of color
she might identify
with. Eyes
she can’t see past
to her next
step down
those flights
of stairs. Eyes
not vocal
chords or ears
this time around.
When he makes
love, he talks—he adores
those vocal chords. But
then subtitles
for the hearing
impaired could be a series
of grunts and snarls, doors
slamming shut—the official
language of last
century’s troubadour. And
those bites were as real
as the slap
in his face—all
while we held each
other’s hearts on mute.
To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
Strike twice on
the same stage
in the same
heart to doom
the same
life all over
again. She only thinks
she recognizes
that dose
of thunder
as his.
The trigger
point may be
centimeters (or miles)
lower than he thinks. It may
be so much
higher, so much
in your head.
Just after midnight. Day
365. Just as time
closes the circle
tight, another one
in a parallel life
opens just a crack
to let in the light
of all the sunrises
my father did witness,
all the waves
he did hear crash
against all the shores
he claimed
with an intensity
in his eyes.
Just as I wonder
how I will see it rise
through a late August
storm, I remember
I could let go
of the immediate
future to breathe
more freely into this
slowed-down now.
I could address
my father directly,
and no one would care
if I believed
in spirits. And so
I do know
you are out there
whether I can see you
or not. This day
will break
as it will
no matter what.
She accidentally drops
a penny
into a plastic cup
filled with water.
Aiming for the tip
jar, how did she miss?
Whose water—
now magical
or polluted? No one
notices. She decides
on magic,
and it would be
peace for you, Dad.
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…
View original post 28 more words
Come full circle
is not complete
without the last five
days. Can I keep
the pace of grief
steady? Sequential
dreaming is overrated. Change
the setting, change
the internal
dialogue and all the reed
instruments collected
in one long
narrow room. Corridor
songs round their notes
best without cracking them.
The last lift
she achieved
cannot prepare her
(or him)
for any elevation
gained or lost
the next
morning. Hot
or cold, tea
spilled at regular
intervals throughout
this next
day begins
to resemble a channel
not carved
by man (or woman).
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 