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.
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.
This is my novelty
act she declares
to the empty chairs
rimming a painted
blue room. Watch me
flash my willpower
through still air. A cigarette,
ashtray, bottle
of vodka, shot
glass, and the number 8
all lined up
on a table
she will not touch.
Now for Act II.
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.
The same story
in seven different languages.
She can’t find hers. Where? Could be tucked
deep inside
those accordion folds. But, no,
this could be
his. To pretend
to be mute
at this late date could be
his one last act
before a hunger strike pulls
down the red curtain. Or, no,
that one might be
the one she abandoned
years ago at the roadhouse
now something else altogether.
One of thousands left
all over stages and beer
shellacked club floors across
America, I am
the first
to press against
those strings you strung
across his favorite
guitar. Triangular
and blessed chip.
Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 