Take Hamlet—angst-ridden
over mermaids drowning
in estuaries before they posed
for sculptors to earn their own
rock island refuges.
I knew one who believed
in only one art—the art
of anger. He grew up near
Rock Island, Illinois.
He doesn’t count.
He recreates himself, prepares
to be drunk again. I come
to him with my stainless steel moon
cup, my female thirst, prepare
to be drunk again. He presses
himself, won’t press me.
If I do this, it won’t be his
descent. Is it that I wish to be divine,
or my fear of sticking around
too long—the moon’s rhythm
over the ocean lost.
I want to climb into your chute and go
where you’ll take me. Part of the longest continuous network
anywhere, you’ve lost
something. A building? Parking ramp? Human
contact? Asymmetry
is an addiction. Skyway to nowhere,
feed me.
To embarrass a lone monk
she fills herself with oak.
He staggers and
despite everything (which strives to be
nothing)
can’t deny the ecstasy of dwelling
in scents of bark, sap, and
blossom. Before he can steady
his breath, she pours leftover contents
of the moon
into his mouth—pure soma, no
rhubarb substitute will due. But it’s the heat
from her enabler’s hand
he can’t resist.
Scene of accidents
in deep thought to be cracked apart
for easy turn over
another examination into the least lies
of poets before an absinthe
conversation between all of us and sidewalk concrete
the way it got slapped
down for one of us to greet at midnight.
It was a wider door
I never knew could be opened till she leaned in
and dozens followed
behind so many more watching from balconies
labeled by decade
so no one forgets. And a hill to tuck
and roll down that last
night before strutting on out. There’s no return
to that position—the center
of gravity has shifted as it must.
You could have been a caryatid before
you learned to swim. Water gave you
a perfect getaway.
No longer shouldering it,
you’ve made a throne
of past struggles. All freedom
comes at a price—twice
losing your head, even your right arm
you never said you were willing
to give away. When you go
to China to play ambassador, your drowning
sisters may try to lift your island
rock for themselves. Your
burden will be theirs.
A fostering mother calls
to ask me not to forget
the way she dragged me
into city streets
to become a vehicle self-propelled.
Often scratched
with a sharp object, the head
is represented. Many lack
noses. Do not require
necks. Absent
or ambivalent emotional
expression has proven effective.
The symbol for drinking does thicken
for a ragdoll type.
There has been much debate
about graffiti. Iconic
and crudely embellished
morphemes do not require
general consensus. It all started
by simplifying people
to their earliest roots.
It was so cold story
season again. No one visits us
up here. We have this moon
scabbed land to ourselves. You
and your friends
are crazy to perform
here at the end of this month.
If you dare, better bring
more layers than those
streaming from your guitars.
What began east
of the Mississippi
(a mile or two) ends
west of it (a mile
or two). The living
between has crossed
bridges, barely
without jumping, has crossed
a god (or two). Frozen
but for the falls,
it doesn’t care
where I reside, what
I do when I’m in
overlook position. Whenever
they gather 8 floors up
by the riverside glass
façade, you know
the news isn’t good. Nothing’s
locking through this time
of year. Someone has locked down
temptation once
and for all again. Me,
I’m off that pedway—believing
in movement because
of the falls and everything they touch.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 