Yesterday was another
one. Twenty-one
years—but why keep
a tally? Yesterday
I heard his signature
song come tumbling out
of that Irish pub
on the mall. Part of that romance
on public transportation
series. The only kind I could know
other than this pedestrian love.
Really that’s all there is
for me not quite
half a lifetime later—so many
of the original players long gone.
That she could define the sacred place inside her architecture of breathing,
that she could steal her father’s Old Head cave—naturally programmed
with thick Irish grass to cushion vistas of the Irish Sea—
that she could claim even one piece of rock as her own
to build a chapel for her own non-conformity,
would be her attention to structure,
would be her proposal to the world,
would be her physical presence
inside a hallowed ground where there are
no lines, no dimensions, only
the exquisite knowing of a spot
where she, like seamen before her,
would go. She would go
to rest her body, to forget it, to uncover
in the rubble of Earth’s design,
souls lost, souls renewed,
a storm pushing so many
waves into the cave, etching
its remarkably evolved design
no human hand could replicate.
If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.
Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out
tale to find
the way out.
With effort,
she would only whisper
the story of his life
to those trees
that would listen.
Free fall—
a belly flop
onto carpet. No wheels
can rescue the traveler now
landing.
Who offers
an app for saying
good-bye without
uttering a sound? Secrets
are sometimes so loud
she doesn’t pay
attention. Misses
the easy
ones. She understands
the hardened silence too well.
Blue, red, and green
lights flash behind
a translucent airport wall. I won’t touch
but will imagine
how it might feel
to be so powerful—creating waves
and particles
in all shapes
and sizes. I can almost see through
this flat space. Almost
hear your safe voice again.
I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost
state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left
will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.
What is a smile beyond
the face, besides
voluntary use of muscles, between
two living beings? The Onion pokes
fun at poets again—she responds.
It could be a gnarled mess in springs,
or a revolt in the street. She refuses
to reveal what she will lean into. A bounce
gone awry or tricks that unravel—she mouths
the words: the difference is in the recoil.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 