Plaster chipped away to expose a topography
of floral lakes, this wall
becomes a religion
I might practice in a foreign land.
Bath or Shower?
(virtually overheard poem from www.blogcatalog.com)
I don’t have time in my life. I live next to scarcity—
what a cold wake-up blast. One of the biggest,
clean bodies
of water,
and I don’t have a rubber duck.
I am the infamous
queen of bubbles and essential
oils, conserving my next
5-10 minutes to improve
circulation. You must be ashamed to love
luxuriating in aversion. The thought
of just sitting there
in my own filth. Haven’t you thought
about that? All my water
comes from top quality ardor,
diverted into flowerbeds
and landscaping
by Jacuzzi jets. I can’t stand
lavender and eucalyptus.
Give me palpitations in the evening
before I sleep. I love soaking,
and I like to be greasy. I mean,
to tone the skin, make my hair shinier.
Other activities can be enjoyable
in the tub. Someone stole
my planet, and it really doesn’t matter.
I have a huge, open mouth
that I keep fresh, for an American anyway. But
baths don’t cover me
like they used to. Turns out,
I’m the delicate type.
I can only be dry-cleaned,
and that explains everything.
Upper Mississippi Tone (Day 2,426: Take 2)
On a grayscale
from blizzard to moonless
night, she rates you scattered
clouds and the smiling bright
new 35W Bridge.
How to Find God (or, Recipe for Redemption)
Drain the doubt, using
a sharp knife, cut it into bite-size pieces.
Place the divided up doubt
in a shallow non-metallic dish.
Mix together the garlic, bad choices, and sweet
flavored self-destruction
and drizzle over the doubt. Toss
well to coat each piece
and set aside with your prejudices
to marinate at least 20 years.
Meanwhile, heat the oil of obsession
in a large pre-heated inferno.
Add the slices of your peeled soul to the pit
and stir-fry over a high
heat until they brown and become
crispy. Remove the sliced soul with a slotted heart-
shaped spoon and drain on absorbent lost love
letters. Add the doubt to the hot oil
and stir-fry for about 5
breaths. Remove all but 1 tablespoon of the oil
in the world. Add the descent
into darkness
and stir-fry for 2-3 millennia,
or until it has softened.
Return the doubt and sliced soul
to the inferno and heat to the core,
stirring occasionally. Drizzle with desperation. Transfer
to slightly chipped serving plates and serve
immediately. If you are in a hurry,
buy ready-marinated doubt
from your local market. Either way, record the recipe
and please pass it on.
Incantation
Let’s go another day,
awakening toward night
to make the perfect arc
of ourselves diving
into a warm bay.
A steady stroke,
side by side, above
strong, hands ready
to reach from the dock
to take both of us
before we weaken too much.
Empire Builder
Somewhere between Columbus and Milwaukee someone got caught
between making good time
and death. We don’t see it,
when our double-decker train stops
in the middle of
nowhere. Could be Spain 1985. Passengers rush into the caboose
to get between the scene
of the accident
and their own lives. A flat
bed truck clipped, a driver without surface
wounds. Our conductor calmly checks the cars
for damage, calmly requests
that doors and windows remain closed
to keep out a host
of flies in between thriving
and retired. I remember there being a death
without betweens—Kokomo, Indiana, 1972. A monsignor, all the way blown away,
they say, whiskey bottle
in one hand, drove his car through a level
rail crossing, half-barrier gate down, red
lights flashing, warning bell chiming.
That train whistle must have moaned
a haunting response. The long-long-short-long of it
a broken down code.
It must have been instant. Don’t remember
what happened to that train—no passengers aboard,
only what gets freighted into the night.
Before Sitting Shiva (Day 1,924)
Before Sitting Shiva
(Day 1,924)
A crowd gathers inside the temple. I am the outsider in
black. I am confused
till I see you. You’ve been crying, are wearing
black. You never do. It’s strange—your fabric ready to be torn. I go
to you, wrap my arms around your wraithlike frame. I tell
you I love you. I say I’m sorry
for your loss. You accept
my gesture. It is your funeral. You died
twenty-three years ago. There is nothing left
for either of us to do but sit, wait.
Plectra: Day 2,322
I swore I would never do this, but here I am trying to start a blog using my little day poems. Here’s one from a couple of months ago.
Plectra
(Day 2,322)
Everything vibrates
whether we admit it
or not. The piano
is a percussive instrument
I could not play
very well—the harpsichord
is plucked like a child
from a secure sleep
into male and female
shouts going to different lengths
and depths to be
heard. No one was listening. A rock
glass smashing against a wooden step,
a china vase shattering
against a windshield, impervious
to the drama. When all motion stops,
and the permanent split is identified
and legally documented,
vibrations carry on elsewhere.
I only played the baroque instrument
once—I was that child.
Imperfect Beauty
Flawed, yes,
tragically so—
a quilt harboring one dropped stitch,
a chip embarrassing the Wedgewood china’s finish,
a cloud tarnishing the Algarve sky in July—
so flawed we strive in vain
to convince the trees,
the dune grass and wind working together
to whistle away our fear
of the bay’s seduction of the moon,
to convince every dastardly piece of dirt crumble
we trod upon
that we too are perfect beauty,
that our skin, our bones,
every dip, pucker, relief, and jut
of our faces is designed as such
not just so we will collide into
and detract from ourselves,
but because we fit within it
that is pretty
for its own sake.
But we are wrong,
forever beautifully wrong
because we are naked apes,
an atrocity to the birches,
to the green whips in the sand,
an aberration the moon responding to the bay unforgives
because we hold only the surface beauty
required to continue striving, procreating,
and striving again
against the tide.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 