I am that body. Sedated
to prevent convulsion
into permanent stillness. I am
all bodies in motion
and at unrest. I am
this living
moment
where all fury and blame
are rubbed out. Fragile shell—
I am one too.
Do You Know
Perfect storm
of sadness perfect sky
perfect color apple perfect collapse
perfect moon
perfect agony perfect love perfect slow
suicide perfect rescue
perfect disease
perfect song perfect hell perfect
emotion—who’s to say when
it’s been reached.
Gets Away with It
This exquisite solitude
is my ambrosia, soma, cool
breeze coaxing a hammock
on a crest overlooking
a breaking ocean.
Acquired over years
of painful resistance,
even more gruesome
dependence
on a man—any man—this pleasure
dome is equipped with a retractable roof,
an observatory
for observing the hems
of gods. Some of them slightly torn.
Single File
Did I choose this narrow
path, or did it choose me? No
matter, here I am climbing
up and around
a bluff to reach a peak
or some plateau
with the better view
ascending. Clusters
of visitors come tumbling
down—I can open my mouth
to greet them, can make room
for their passage without spilling
over
the ledge.
Or not.
Summer heat has reduced the surface
to sand dust. I imagine mud
and dank air
on another day. This panic when looking
down is my descent into anxiety
of loneliness or my anxiety
of influence. I can’t tell
the difference. Will it tell
on me?
On California Crates
“I made love to her under the tarantula.”
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Beams and beliefs
before the bottom
fell out
and I became just
another casualty.
It’s not the fur—it’s the dander.
Erasure for a River Ballad
You could play guitar inside
a carved out amphitheater
within a grain silo. The notes
that get trapped inside
honeycomb pockets
would resonate all the truer
a roots sound with the memory
of wheat protecting them.
I would stand
a perpetual ovation
in my red steel balcony—an intervention
that gets results.
Wabasha Street Caves
From sand dunes to glass
bottles, mushrooms, and gangsters
in three easy steps. Discover
the silica potential, carve
out caves for mining, harvest
the goods
and bad and everything
in between. Dank
and delicious, history is ripe
for the stealing. It’s what I do.
Crooked Spirituality
She knows her guardian
angel is not perfect—
those wings don’t align,
the right one is slightly
bent,
he sometimes squints
when he takes off
over the redwoods
to sail above Big Sur again.
September Laminant
The clank of faux
pearl snaps on sleeve cuffs
against table top formica,
a message seeps
through wine patches
in the shirt plaid—
not long now, this leg
is coming
to an end. Time
to leave lipstick on another
mug and pull a black velvet coat
over shoulders before breezes
become extinct
for eight more, gusts
take over the glorious
hurl forward.
@ the Saint James Hotel
It could be tattoos and piercings offered
in the old rail shed behind a grain
elevator that still groans and gives
forth. Could be barges propelled up river
to unwrap another image thrown
back in time. Or a black and burnished
brass Roman Candlestick
telephone and century turning pipe
organ in history’s hotel
parlor. If only my mother were here—
she would know what to do.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 