No one leaves
the hoist up for her. No
need. She’s not going to
go
into the whole 300 versus
500 feet. Just keep back. On foot
it’s easy to forget the doom
to decay eager. This rhythm is the same one
she picked up near the Rock River
before she could speak.
And those rocks we would slip
off come high
tide. Your face drawn
with a cane in all that blown
sand. The painful
part is not being able
to carry things.
Analepsis is my burden, prolepsis
yours. Together,
we drop
to our knees
relieved to have this cold
opening to ourselves.
More rain and seldom
seen plastic artifacts
possess another route
she takes in laughter—listening
to Dylan does it
every time. If
she had more energy,
she would find the source
of all tears. A crystal
lake miles north, surrounded
by willows and a promise
weather dutifully keeps.
She almost wishes it would
just do it—just snow.
(Do I mention the leopard
skin pill box hat here? Or not.)
This room is for music,
that one for shouting
on the fall down.
That’s how I remember it,
how I tried to keep it
straight. But when I got blurry,
I may have released
my vocal chords wrong—a coloring
outside the lines. A tiny bird darts in
and out
of the retro deco
signage above the south-facing front
door. It’s locked. No more
food. One more night
of music in this room,
shouting in that. Tomorrow
the construction site wrapped thick
with plastic rattling
a gentle November death
breath will swallow it
whole. And that’s that.
A barnacle clings
to its host, a kiss-up,
annoying to distraction.
A barnacle hugging
its rocks, the foundation
beds its shore.
Summer ignites itself
Methodist style. Japanese
paper lanterns Noguchi might have made
for Martha Graham’s last dance
alight the campgrounds, set the island aglow
in pinks, oranges, yellows, fire-engine
red awash. A crowd gathers to mingle, a child
may wander tonight
in wonder the way gingerbread
cottages welcome her to their wooden railed porches, dare her
to touch the gossamer skin
on their handmade firefly swarm, cracking paint on their rainbow eaves, beckon
an unconscious desire to trace a piece
of island history with fingertips. Her grip on home
rice paper thin, she wants to believe
her step across these wooden planks will never end. But
as she witnesses this blaze of an island blasting its last August
shouts before a decrescendo toward an autumn whisper
few hear, fewer comprehend, she knows she must relinquish
the island to return it to those who find
illumination into night without
a lantern, without a tabernacle song.
The bees are dying. No one knows
why. Saying hello as you roll
away does nothing
to clear away this rain.
The beekeeper rarely speaks,
his voice cracks from disuse. I resist
filling in his blanks. They are not
blank, but beveled
with premonition. Lightning
could destroy the hive. But that’s not it.
And if it was, you still wouldn’t stand still
long enough to take anyone’s advice.
It’s not going to kill
me—this chemistry
experiment being
performed inside the boundary
between me and
everything else. Unused.
Cessation. It gets erased
gradually.
Sorrow as a second language,
spoken there, taught here, she comes
to get her education, to give back
all she has. It’s yours,
if you can use it. She asks
questions no one questions—
answers upon answers erased
from the black board
so she can breathe. Some will cry,
some will laugh, some will
die in this place where she comes
to believe in a broken tongue.
Someone’s placed a photo
of a boat on the side
of a train. There are buses
with bicycle racks
on their grilles, people walking off
planes onto moving
sidewalks. And there’s the pigeon foot
I discover on a curb
a mile from home. It smells
like nothing, but there’s
rot in the air, could be
a dead squirrel, could be dead
leaves. If you can smell my decay,
will you let me
know? I can never
tell how I get translated—never realized
you could tell
there was alcohol on my breath
when I kissed you good-night.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 