Ambidextrous from
now on. There will be
awkward days. She’s too
in the groove. Do you
want to help her
realign her pelvis? Take
this broomstick. Start there. Don’t forget
to activate her
brand of narcissism
typically found in a meadow
hemming in woods she knows
only in daydreams.
She could return to the man
who dances with praying
mantises. Or, to the water—colder
on the second day. Or,
another man
she hasn’t spoken to
in over 20 years. She sees him—does he
see her? She imagines
how she might reinvent
his gaze. How he would look
underwater when the ocean
has calmed. Or, what he’d do
if a fox started following him.
Now she doesn’t even know
which man she means.
It’s all a wild ride
that begins in a dinghy
her uncle named after her.
A fox follows you
till fear makes you
sprint to lameness. A swim
in the ocean
in your dress awakens
your hidden desire
to be out
of control again. Your hair
may smell of seaweed
and salt mixed
with grief
for your father—some called
Running Fox—now dead
two years. But the air
you breathe
in this moment
brushes the Atlantic Ocean
across all surfaces—your face.
A large white dollhouse
with green shutters
on a folk art pedestal
seduces her. Not
those shell-encrusted
parlor memorials, painting
of the Pilgrim Monument, replica
of a whaling vessel. She’s
a little embarrassed
to be still playing with dolls’
homes. Tiny artisans
and a beehive furnace
in a model
of a 19th-century glassmaking factory
could take her away
for a night or two.
Fear of heights gets no purchase
inside a life in miniature.
I could continue with
infatuation never kills until
it does. No purple haze,
she would kiss
the ground, eat dirt
again, if she could hold
you longer than a hug
that lasts as long as it takes
to say thank
you. Could turn
a platonic touch
into a secret encounter—your body
against into
hers for a long while.
Those tiny deaths—
they don’t sting too much.
I saw a man dance
with a praying mantis
tonight. I tried
not to be
jealous, but I was. She looked
hungry. I’ve said a prayer
for him but fear his dismount
will be his last.
Long white to black strand
of hair trapped in the hinge
of an airplane tray
table in its upright
position. Back on
land, crickets don’t use
their legs to chirp. They use
their wings. I have none, I hear
nothing over this city din.
I don’t believe
in mermaids. But
I know some
would rather swim
than run, float
than fly, dive
than dig. I don’t wish
to be one—just want
to imagine you
dreaming about me
with a long shimmering tail.
What I saw is a secret.
In whispers, I must only hint at
a northern Rimrock ridge,
a chain of snow-capped mountains called Beartooth,
unnaturally drawn carvings into a landscape from plane view
I could not identify,
irrigation ditches said the gentle guide at road level,
a canal where I would go
the last morning to pray,
the only way I know how.
Monday morning on my feet snaking a bicycle wheel-wide path
without falling, out of practice, forgetting the verses,
all the pauses and kneeling that must be choreographed just so
till I see what I must only whisper,
till I can take my trail mass to his bedside,
tell him louder than Roman chants
that I ran along his altar,
was trailing after him one more time,
while he rested half a lifetime of roads
into the quietest missal you can read
only if you close your eyes to hear,
your ears to see.
It is a secret
I must whisper. Two nights ago
with your hand tight around mine,
your breath tight around time,
yelling with lips through which nothing comes,
defying you to give me more road,
more trail you have in you than a mere cartographer,
to unfold before me,
whether or not I will be able to fold it up flat again.
I must only whisper
how the ridge and the ditches and the sky captivate,
can only whisper
how you, my father, must not die tonight,
can only whisper what you see, have seen,
I saw, am seeing—
this secret Big Sky.
Steam doesn’t rise
the way she dreamed
when she could
remember to watch
for it. Infrasound below
a register she recognizes
could still
cause a syndrome
or vibration
or jarring
thought to be
released into wind
bursting overnight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 