All the world’s
an ice rink
this morning before
the sun (no one can see
through freezing rain
and fear) fully rises. Where
did it go
when these bones began
to break and drop
to the lacquered
ground? Whose bones
will replace those
missing from this new silence?
A tiny soap bubble
forms, floats
through still air, drifts
to its ultimate
destination, demise
on porcelain
surface. More fragile
than her own ideas,
she turns away. Can’t bear
another scene
of destruction. Yet
the beauty of its gossamer
film stays with her
the rest of the day—bringing her more
strength than a thousand
poorly chosen words.
This is not
about dissecting bee
hives, celebrating dead
presidents (stacked or face
down), the last time
I saw grass grow
anywhere. This is
about the first time
we spoke and you made
a joke and the train jerked
to a full stop. It was the end
of the line,
and you and I
had just begun.
The girl who walks
alone to school, to the library,
home pogo-sticks
in her street
on snow
days before
Easter. A newborn
and marriage unraveling
inside, no one notices
her absence. Still
hasn’t begun
to swear or stop
believing.
Everything echoes
interruption from 5 ½ months
ago. Another trip
to an art museum
suspended. Piles
of new poems stacked
against a stucco
wall unblogged. All walks
come with a hollowed-out
hive halfway
through. If it’s a before
after scenario, this is
the in-progress video
that won’t end.
Not gonna be about
death. Not gonna
be about addiction. Not
gonna be
about the river, ice, wind
chill, water main
breaks. If I say
it’s about the red
wheelbarrow, or a dare
to eat a peach, or
mermaids singer, or
heaven forbid moths
laughing—well, we’re all
thieves in here anyway.
These are not
tears. A wind
chill emotion erupts
without warning. Who
leaves their dog
outside a café
on a day like today?
Two-inch thick
ice will last
longer than many
relationships.
As I peel
on and off
layers of peace,
another January
gets sealed
shut. Another recipe
scrolls down
the side of a wall
outside a venue
that sells
no food. And these words
will not
be sung indoors.
“We quote each other only when we’re wrong.”
—Jay Farrar (Uncle Tupelo), from “High Water” (Anodyne)
A half dozen
roses tossed
onto a snow bank. A garment
bag with wheels
going in circles
on a carousel
of time. Three
sisters, one
mother, a wife, two
children under
four. One father—
recently dead. A box of notes
for a novel
scrapped without
a plot. A birthday
gift for a modern
novelist—long dead. A bowl
of yellow split
pea soup without
a spoon. Six
roses in the wrong
kind of water.
The dialogue
that preceded them.
All the quotation
marks she saved
just in case.
Beautiful to watch
from a well-sealed
window. Nothing
gets taken
for granted. Feels like
a drop
in ambient thought.
The essential reveals
itself against a pale blue
cloudless sky. Another day
where hope just might burst
through burns awake
to break convection’s hold.
for Sheri
She knows every inch of the dock,
every splinter, barnacle,
hurricane seam.
It is not a plank.
It is just where she walks.
And she knows how to dive,
has been doing it for years.
No easing shore side
into the wash for her,
she plunges in and is “used to it”
before others wake.
This is underworld—closets,
caves, roads, the drag
of undertow. This is where she should
live, she who in her heart is a sponge
is a sponge is a sponge.
It is laying out to dry,
the exposure to air,
the rising sun. It is her death
to be before all of you. In performance,
she will never work a room,
works the ocean floor
for all it’s worth.
Leave her uncontained. She would rather
paint kisses—watercolor running—
than be confounded by a mirage of roses
she cannot reach, without a body
protected or unprotected by skin.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 