For Steve
Taken from the vault,
it gets warbled, deeper, slurred
when the batteries inside begin to rot
and seep. Recorded
on the west bank
of the Saint Croix River before I knew
what that meant, our conversation
was my monologue—became yours—then
it just stopped.
For Steve
I can’t find you
on the northwest side
of this urban courtyard
without knowing true
north or any other kind
of truth—save you
are too soon gone.
in a god, but the soul, yes. I don’t want
to write about urns
or the contents of any vessel I can’t
submerge in a tank
of amnesia. Whom
I envy is a matter
up for a discussion
I’m not prepared to have. What seemed
too soon becomes too late—the interruption
of beliefs is complete.
For Steve
There’s a voice missing
from this conversation.
The hollow buzz is breaking more
than my ear drums.
She was no femme
fatale, would accept roses
without devouring the stems
whole. Suffering
from acute self
absorption, we bump against
our own reflections
in confusion, believe those faces
to be other
than ourselves. We’re wrong, forever
seeking fabric to conceal
these bruises—ours, theirs.
She stands outside the mouth
in fear—it tastes like dirt—
a gummy red, soulful clay soil.
She passes through
this entrance daily
to travel into that deep, pitch,
sometimes dank, place
inside herself
where she plucks poems
from vines. Too dangerous now,
this passage might cave
into her, she might crumble
into a thousand tiny pieces
of a broken heart.
An island won’t tell
its stories to just anyone.
She needs to woo its open ocean
side with a promise—
no messages in bottles, no
texting the mainland
after the fishermen bed
down the sun into night.
She prefers student
over teacher, says
inspiration is
elusive. No one
would settle without
water nearby. It will all shift—
the more she learns
the less she knows
why
call this—or this—
home. On these days,
she prefers
to board a train
to let go.
Riding the rails through
an afternoon comes
easier than staying
put face
to face with imminent
death. Or not. To those
gone but not
gone, she says
these tracks are her prayer.
* From Jack Kerouac’s Big Sur
If this deluge is sent
to get our attention, imagine
a whisper through
a still open window.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 