Turns out it was his ambivalence
she couldn’t resist. Turns out she’d rather
get mistaken
for a bag lady than drive a vehicle through
the earth’s heart. Turns
out she might like to wear broad-rimmed sun
hats this summer the way she gave up winter
scarves at the end
of the millennium. Flux
isn’t passion, isn’t nearly
as exquisite
as changing her own mind.
“Their whistles weird shadows of sound.”
—Sara Teasdale, from “From the Woolworth Tower”
Paint her as a child
on the one that crosses
Vineyard Sound. Forget to warn him
when the whistle blows
above his always lilting
head. Impress upon those who might
refuse to reflect on anything
more than a moment
old that memory comes with the package—
stories stored and ripe
for a dusting off
embellishment. Liars and thieves
in the best sense of those words—
weird and sound.
The devil’s backbone takes
her breath to feed
the artesian well that spills
into the pond she hopes
to see from her sunroom
window this time next year.
And that voice inside
the tunnel releases
an echo: move
on, move on, move on
over to this fresh moment.
And she does. Another one
up ahead—no cell vibrations,
time to break old signals,
ride it out till headlights
slap afternoon awake again.
A legacy of doing
the math, a grandmother with a sixth
grade education and pitch thirst, knew
her numbers.
This social networking age tallies
what can’t be counted
on and loses
track of each heart beat. It could be
my job not to forget.
This fat day,
with its bare branches, precedes no more
ashes for me.
Wipe foreheads, clocks, songs, stairs, smoke
stands, seeds, souls
down. Just for today. Tomorrow I still may
go lean.
These things I put down
to be compressed—
so self-contained—
now come
with tags attached.
While you lament the passing
of Chalmers Johnson,
I try to defend the poetry
in window shopping
for dresses—occasionally stopping
to buy. Floral print tees
should bloom on the back
as much as the front.
Semi-translucent is still
classified. This rock
glass holds more
than someone’s meltdown. Some things
are better left unseen.
Angry late winter wind blows
apart my image
of you—a figure
with feet firmly planted, set apart
from the others. A bed
of needles for any season, a nest
of thought that could incubate
lady slippers to outgrow
their endangerment—
it’s time. Time to cup
my hands into an annual
vessel to catch the belief
again. It leaks, its surface
has become cracked
and stained. Still, each year
I return to the O horizon.
These patterns that define
my fingers—could they be
next? I wonder if I can forget
myself for another spell to hold
that essence of things this time around.
“The stark, unutterable pity,
To be dead, and never again behold my city.”
—James Weldon Johnson, from “My City”
What if this is how it’s going to be—
atmospheric screen frozen,
no rebooting. Only one season left,
all natural warmth from the sun
a myth
our ancestors handed us
on a microwavable platter. The raw
movement dies from lack
of passion.
No more fire
in the belly, no more burning
desire to create friction—
to get next to you. This table wobbles.
That type set to tell on those paintings
has shrunk
to a grunt. I’ve lost
the secret code to maintain
an allusion. This uncoordination
has nothing to do with my left hand.
* James Weldon Johnson, from The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 