John Berryman’s name
surfaces twice in one week, Medusa’s head
appears in print, then on a wall, next
a ceiling, or could be hanging midair
in atrium space. Clichés from Friday afternoon
haunt her come Sunday evening, no matter who
she speaks to on Saturday, no matter whose
voice warms then breaks
open her heart. Lost
wax casting is an industry
she can believe in without
having to see. In nine technical steps, her form
is firm and free.
Could be that smell
of the outdoor pool
in the center of a ring
of motor lodge rooms—no interior
hallway, no escape
from a three-year-old’s
fate. Could be those Thanksgiving
celebrations held in hotel
ballrooms—all the family,
including a father’s wives past,
present, future. And affiliated
teens. Could be how adulthood changes
associations to reach this time
of obsession with inns—
urban, seaside, roadside, airport
side, and the stories they hold
for her to rescue. She’s ready
to roll out her ladder, she’s sleeping
in the double bed next to the window
overlooking a courtyard fountain
tonight. Sealed shut,
it barricades her from that pungent hint
of chlorine. Just in case
someone might fall in.
A dream with its middle erased, a phantom
limb—it unnerves her come that moment morning
coffee kicks in. Rain
that doesn’t happen
gets stored in those places no one mentions
in status reports. She’s about
to speak—her own laughter burns
her cheeks. Out of practice, she clears her throat
in a hurry. Still, lyric over
narrative breaks free.
A companion piece to vintage
postcard greetings, she says hello
to the big river. A swelling
to the brim, this year’s crest still won’t surpass
her expectations—no spilling over downtown
banks. On her ridge
a mile west, she pays
better attention to new lakes
as they make appearances
at street corners. She knows a flood
is no mean fate. Sand bag
preparedness may suffice
here. Oceans away atrocity
continues to rise beyond
calculation and mashed-up time.
No precious space, no
books framed to hang
on walls she would only want
to move at the moment
of willingness. That dandelion
tea she spilled on
printouts of online
articles about his song
without dance—not necessary.
An accident she could explain
away with a pilot light
that flickers out—after,
always after the water
boils. The dust of her breathing
skin gets in a little
each night
while she sleeps without fear.
She cracks open a note
to see what’s inside.
Not that she would understand
the springs and pistons
responsible for a change
in key. Or the reflection
of a hidden spiral
stair in a window pane. A plate
of them—may as well be pomegranate
seeds or whole ginger.
She’s left to contemplate
a next step, forget
let it be.
Mowrey’s Tavern, Cleveland House,
Dunham House, Forest City House, Hotel Cleveland,
Sheraton Cleveland, Stouffer’s Inn
on the Square,
Stouffer Tower City Plaza Hotel, Renaissance
Cleveland Hotel at Tower City
Center. Too many names spill
over her memory of Public Square, the Terminal
Tower when it was still terminal,
but nothing gives. She forgot
to take notes during the seduction.
Here it is—the reason
she built the Take No Heroes Hotel.
Thanks for reminding me how
to seduce mean
from time. I’m lost
inside the simple-eyed cricket
stare of my junk
watch. I want you
on an island next to mine.
We’d build a skyway
then blow it apart
each night in our sleep. I’d build
a dinghy, tuck oars inside
its belly, shove it your way,
get back to this. There would be
no meantime. But, no,
forever those flats, that child
unborn, naturally
washed out with the tide.
I no longer darken—I lighten
my own steps.
Hidden
in all that dross—
there’s you. My perfect poem—
perfect cadence, coincidence
condensed.
And now I cannot remember
the anecdote I offered
in a letter I wrote you
before we met. Cannot
recall the other reason
we do this make it up
to believe in something
true—other than just because
it’s what we do. I cannot
prove this rebuilds those crumbling
walls that used to protect us
from ourselves. Some words,
some notes belong together
the way you and I never did.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 