A day later, what was buried
truth in subconscious ruts
has dissolved into a residue
debate: Did she? She didn’t—
did she? Each time she has one,
she’s never in the actual
act. It’s done. She’s left
with only mind-altering
denial—a hollow clanking
in her purse.
Once sprung, it builds
its own roads. She may dig
detours with a felt
tip. She might believe
she’s in control.
And she could claim
credit for the resulting map.
But it’s never complete
till you arrive
(with you over there, and you,
all of you) to mess
with the lines.
A congestion takes
time to clear
away stale ideas. Would it
really be the end
of the world to be
a new
soul. With slow
moving ovals
to louse
up patterns without.
I was born
funny
looking, looking
to make my way
with a simple trick—
a mouth shaped
downward to laugh,
upward to sob, and nothing
in between. Who knows
if that part
really matters.
Looking at this painting backwards,
the poet begins
to see how not
to end, how the center holds
only recycled reflections of a soul. More
will be revealed, still
a nuisance theme, runs
rampant in reds and golds inside
closed lids. And then there’s that
damn song and the guy who sings it—how
it wrote him inside
out. Was it? It was
this torched. Turn it
over with eyes at rest
Meaning can’t be met
at the station. It floats over tracks
and erases bridges made derelict overnight.
Water’s
constant motion
from my city to yours
can’t be stopped by ice concealing
the want.
All this talk of the source, the head,
convergence
of three ecosystems—not
to mention bog. I’m here to ask
what about
the middle where we’ll find you
stirring our liquid footprints
with yours to concoct
a cocktail to be drunk
by those waiting at the mouth
to be served.
If what I’ve heard is true, before there was an Ellis Island,
my great grandfather walked from Liberty
State Park on the Jersey side of the Hudson
to the east side of the Connecticut River
to settle into a milling
life. I can relate to that. If
what I’ve heard is not true, I can relate
to all those letterboxers who’ve lost their find count.
No dead chubby child
with wings can help
me now that I suffer
tip of the tongue spells
more than I care
to remember. Myths
recounted in another
language mean as much
to me now that he’s been
pronounced
alive. Departing.
Sounds like (he) fled.
Before this incessant counting,
I blended days
with nights
into a potent tonic.
Not for sipping. I began
to erase light
with thickened walls
of ice and stone. When melting
followed, I blamed all
I’d rubbed out.
I know it’s not the numbers
or letters that keep me alive.
But I’m certain they have wings.
Take Hamlet—angst-ridden
over mermaids drowning
in estuaries before they posed
for sculptors to earn their own
rock island refuges.
I knew one who believed
in only one art—the art
of anger. He grew up near
Rock Island, Illinois.
He doesn’t count.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 