For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Day Poems
Sandy Hook Light
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.
Not Yet Evaporated
Public agencies to water
lawns in the early hours
before it all rushes
off. Evidence of afternoon showers
completes redundant
circles she dodges
on her walk
home. It was silver puddle
nonsense till
the blood returned.
It Could Happen
One person’s tomorrow
is another’s yesterday. I could
be another Janus
unable to decide. But
I’d rather be
the seam where it all spills
into now.
How Close Are You to the Shore?
Can you walk barefoot through dune
grass at high
tide and predict how many purple
mussel shells
will be uncovered
next? I wonder if this image of you
I’ve constructed
from ash bark and river glass
could come close
to dampening your bare skin.
A Maze
Once I’ve driven those day
dreams of a dead man
(almost my lover) off the dirt
road, I lay down
on cool stone
to sleep. And dream of you,
a living man
(never my lover). I don’t control
stories that get told
while I sleep. Lyric
never narrative. A complicated card
game I couldn’t play,
I give up and walk down bent
corridors with you
looking back
at me. Is it still there—
that precious
metal band? I can’t see
your left hand.
Into the labyrinth—
a kiss. I wake
to imprint this sweet
consolation prize
on the day.
A 35W Bridge Poem
A poem I wrote years ago in response to the collapse of the 35W Bridge was published in the Star Tribune in recognition of the 5th anniversary of the tragedy.
Her Burden Doesn’t Go Silently into the Civil Dawn
It was not my choice
to collapse, says
the bridge in pieces
on the west
bank. A strip
of purple light
strikes a pose
across her face. And
she wonders
how it feels to drop
guilt so easily
on vacant land.
Without Words
Ready? I couldn’t be
more so. Bronze and
hollowed out. A representation
of a shell to protect
living flesh from otherworldly
showers, I live
in imagination. My darkened
green sleeves peering
through heavy
snow—a figment of a woman’s
realized. Disembodied
lips and an armless mannequin
pillar dance with me
on marble over grass. Who’s
watching? Everyone—and
I am cleansed.
(Inspired by Judith Shea’s sculpture of the same name)
Polaroid
How many times
will he pose
for photographs before the word
simplicity
settles in? Never is a long time
to wait
for hot winds
to subside, for another image
to self-develop.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 