Just past midnight
wishes travel
instantaneously from the south
shore to the west
bank and beyond
(a mile or so). The drop
of salt
water says to the fresh
one in the middle:
I want
to see pictures.
Too mesmerized
by his voice, how he plays
your guitar, to dig out
my camera,
comes the muddy reply.
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.
First it was exotic bird
feathers, then Madagascar ebony
wood, next the songs
themselves, tears
shed over the bounty
of sound. Who’s
the biggest
thief? Traders
before the hum.
Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.
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)
Straw was a factor
in his fall. No one drowned
in the river
that day. No more bridges
collapsed
that year. Hay is for
the rest of the time
he considers descent.
On her way to join
a cult, she unearths
her identity on the edge
of the woods
where she used to get lost.
If I disown the color green,
how will I remember how to climb
a tree? If it’s blue
I say is no longer mine, I might go
blind. Black and white
cannot rescue us now.
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Have the right
of way, where do giants go
to rest? No more
shrugging this off, I will stand
straight and knock
all senseless drunks off
their postures. I will,
I will—after I crawl
through this passage
to sweeter light.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 