Positioned on a bald hilltop, this old
building calls itself
precious. Everyone she knows
is too afraid
to touch it. She’s positioned
aloft, precious
over the river—everyone is too afraid
to touch her. Water moves
only over falls. Winter has slammed
against all she sees
below. When healing does push thaw
forward, she will not be afraid
to put her whole hand in muddy water
to wash away the strange
curse crushed inside stone facades.
Even if she wished,
could she anymore,
if she wished it,
would she dance out
the strange spirit
to carry her from this secure road
to a slather of muck?
To dance out
is to care less,
to give away dreams
you have coveted within
your all-alone nest,
is to offer them stupidly,
to know they will congeal ugly
when music stops. It almost
always does. To dance out
even one more time
is to admit your dreams
are only that. To dance out
is you
who will never believe,
never live off that sickly-sweet air,
never ask the clock to stick its hands
into thin-air brew.
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Polka-dotted purple martin
hotels create symmetry for one
home not far
from Retreat Drive. A warm
Sunday morning late
November south
of the lake by many miles.
I don’t really know where I am—
only that I’m not framing my own
home, am still hoping
to spend one night in a hotel
in my own town.
A florist indulges
in soliloquy. I pass
by without knowing
the hours. It takes a skyway
to access
desperation this whorled.
Art is like a sponge. No,
that’s not it. If
it were, then the ocean
would protect muses
till they were ready. Then,
discipline would float
more than it does.
If I’m going to talk
about you, I better cut
every other word
in half to see if
the reflection of your cable stays
in the river floats, or
disintegrates
under scrutiny
of a thousand pairs
of headlight eyes.
is a toy
to her—a triangular wooden box
with a secret hidden
behind a panel
her mother keeps
her heart beating to.
She wants to know
the secret but doesn’t want to learn
it wrong. So she watches
her mother count
to herself as her fingers
and feet
spell out the contents
of the secret
on piano keys,
organ stops and pedals.
She will develop a habit
of watching metronomers, believing them
to be minor deities (sometimes even full-fledged gods).
Like a good daughter, she stands in front, giving away all
of her attention.
She dances with rhythmic abandon
to pull down a god
or two. Her mother would say she has lost
her balance along the way. And when her mother disowns her,
she won’t realize it
till she chooses to be the meter ticking,
swinging out her own story.
Nude Imagine a pocket door of glass
block. Imagine
an etching of a figure leaning
against an ash tree upon that sand
recycled curtain, a drain of cold
water cascading
around her limbs. It is
June. It is raining. It is
midnight. There is no moon,
nothing to place an image upon.
It is nude.
How I would play the future.
I don’t know how, I would say,
before opening the piano lid
to stare at all that black and white in fear.
Then I would find middle C and forget
to stop for meals or sleep.
How I would play happiness.
An acoustic guitar perfectly strapped
across my shoulder and the pick
to go with it. Without thinking,
I would know where to put my fingers, would
know all the chords.
How I would play terror.
A full orchestra mid prelude
and all the lights go out.
How I would play childhood.
My grandmother’s garden and me,
with my red-painted, wooden toy
barrel organ, grinding out a serenade
to the lilacs, lilies, myrtle
in between, to the tune
of “The Sidewalks of New York.”
How I would play you.
East Side, West Side, all around
the town, I sing a cappella
waiting for the lights to go out
so I can find you again,
serenading the dark with twelve strings.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 