Most—but not all—of the stain
gets removed. A return to wrinkle free
breaths, the smell of snow melt
over concrete, rosewater spilled
on a quilt, the color red buffed
without a hint of orange. It’s not
just about ashes—to strive
for purity even now is worth the energy
it takes to dispute or hang
in willing suspension.
And sometimes we just bounce.
That mannequin torso
I see inside the second floor corner
apartment window facing West 15th
is no Apollo. Has nothing
but its center shell
that won’t encase a heart to shape
and display a wool great
coat, button
down cotton shirt, knit shawl, black
choker, silk tie. From an icy street,
I study its lamplight glow after dark
and suddenly remember
I have one too. And
she hasn’t lost her head.
The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you
opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river
deceit. The truth:
I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale.
The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?
This Wuthering Heights morning
will give way to nothing
more than a Kentucky afternoon
into a Mississippi River night. Ice
dams and avalanches
and floods—let them be.
What will be will be
on moor, in prohibition speak
easy cave, under Prairie
School eave overnight.
No longer his day, it will
come around again—
through slowly stretching
hours of light into shrinking
nights till contraction and expansion
trade places, then trade
again. Just after that final click
to go in reverse, his day
will return. And I hope to be
around to touch it—those untouchable
vibrations and holds.
They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me
from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.
These little books
are my dates
on nights I choose
a spine to keep me
entertained. My little problem is
I choose jellyfish
instead of men. Tonight
there will be no trouble.
Four children four
seasons—does it begin
with spring or winter?
It all depends—
whether we are dormant
before we live, whether
we can begin again, whether
autumn counts at all.
Ink smears over knuckles,
a left-hander drags
her thoughts through the past.
No moment
is left clean.
Now they say
swans divorce
too. I’m no pen,
no bird, no living
thing seeking to break
up another swim.
Frozen beyond stillness,
this land invites
illusion just to keep
frost bite muzzled tonight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 