To climb this side
of a grassy knoll in platform
heels, to find relief
in the reliable
presence of a Noguchi
sculpture outdoors
in the Midwest, to not get lost
in America, is to be
this alone
on wooden planks unafraid
of those who barrel through,
of a sunset she can’t
quite see. It is to fear only
the absence
she recognizes in trees’
fluttering spiked leaves.
When gulls and loons take over the wish
bone
tree branch anchored in a river grave,
when yesterday means to
widow
otherwise, then we’ll be turtles
ready
to issue a forwarding
address through a break
in the current.
Just as suddenly as it resurfaces
in some stirred-up
grit loosened
by spring, it can sink
into a new dormancy
nourished by her calm
flesh. It can but hasn’t. Alert
and proud, this desire
has begun to float.
I resort to artificial tears
when unexpected
wind dries up my view.
When I reach that confluence
where I must drop
it, so I can heal, I’ll be ready
to swallow easy. My eyes
will no longer resemble
the backside of my tongue.
The weeping didn’t
last. Even briefer
than the heart on heightened
alert. Even briefer than a moon
to moon gap. Should I become
a faucet, I hope to filter out
all of that gritty pride.
If she rushes, she can reach the farmers
market before metal saw
horses get collapsed, planks
loaded onto the truck, leftover
watermelon rolled away. If
she slows down, she might catch
a note or two trapped
inside clouds from last night’s concert
under the stars in collision
with a 24-hour jack hammer
breaking up a bridge.
At rest in a crack in the sidewalk, you
are my first outdoor capture.
It’s a digital finale
to a naturally 3D life. The green and purple
beauty of your wings
has not yet rubbed off. A flash
of rain makes me scramble
to protect my equipment. I slip
it and the figment
of you into a purse pocket
specially designed for the occasion. I can’t
help but feel like a thief in all dimensions.
A camera placed
in my hand for the first time
in as long as a road
of memory can wind
into back woods, I’m an uncertain
chronicler. Not sure how
to make a record
this way, not sure I want to
tell a story. I might prefer to steal
an image or two and retreat
to the dirt on that trail.
Flip-flopping between Kerouac,
Miller, Jeffers, Ferlinghetti, and me, she
seeks an answer
to her female question:
Why!
It’s a zigzag route—a skyway
network with real weather
leaking in. She takes it
again and again: bank
to bank, civil
dawn to civil
dusk, Atlantic
to Pacific, instrumental
to spoken
word, digital
to analog, fold-out
to GPS, root
cellar to high
rise green
roof, concave
to convex, at rest
to in motion, addiction
to rejection, black
butterfly to ancient
barnacle, female
to male—what was she thinking
asking them to ask me? She should have
left it at the river. Either side
of the falls would do.
The car with Missouri
plates parked
outside my building
is a great relief.
“I stand on my head on Desolation Peak
And see that the world is hanging
Into an ocean of endless space.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 1st Chorus of “Desolation Blues” (Book of Blues)
Prone to motion sickness, I’ve looked
for adjustments. How to encounter the rolls
and curves without losing myself
when I have a suspicion
I should do just that. How to
accept this condition, this disease
of being human without
somersaulting over the bluff. How to drop
everything I battle gravity
over to let stillness in the center
of a wild wind be my single garment. How to be
a mammal without a thick coat
of fur. How to be upright
on two leathered feet. How? Like this:
I’ll let the blood rush
to my head without blushing.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 