Left leaning
too much spiral
not enough straight
on till dawn. Or,
at least till
the wooded trail breaks
onto a field
of heather
and black-eyed Susans.
The voice behind
the motion
will not reveal itself. Maybe
its body (if it has one)
will heal
faster incognito.
Don’t write about doing
it—do it
(my father would say). Or do
it first, then record it,
relive it, a chance to cheat
time. This life is
no diorama
of a scene on the Brooklyn Bridge
130 years ago. I cannot be
compartmentalized like
a sea room
in the vast Atlantic
on a quiet night.
She won’t say
a word to break
the spell
of bewilderment
she’s waited
so patiently
to be
under. Rarely
does she want
to cast her own.
Hands free
to roam over
other peninsulas
or anywhere there might be ghosts
to swipe.
Again the month
of grandeur
in grief appears
on the calendar.
A grid of days
leading to the day
the floor, the foundation
to my house
of stability gave
way. A crumbling
to open
all invisible doors
to go forward
without him.
No explanation
necessary. Introverts
go to parties
willingly. Sip
ice water and talk
about moving, spitting
images, where to buy
parkas, breaking
glass. Sip more
and slip out the only
door before
fireworks take
over the sky.
Her quiet presence
looms long
and lean—a shadow
cast nearing civil
twilight. Forty years
since she’s stood
before or beside
me, and still
I remember her
long hair the color
of unground coffee
beans. Her bangs. The fresh
laundered scent
she would leave behind
as she rode off on
her banana seat
bicycle through those wooded trails
behind our row
of houses. Some whispers
echo longer
into silver brilliance
than any shrill yelp
of a peacock at large.
The color
pink speaks out
of turn, interrupts red
with a white streak
of thought
grenades. It rains.
Lightning decorates
the lilac sky. Waiting
for a serious dose
of thunder—there is
no blue.
Bodies falls
from the sky, fingers
point, half-written
stories burn, no duende
has a chance
to spark with death
already landed.
Always gives
her pause. She starts
and stops love
affairs on summer ones. That young
man who touches her
hair and cheek
in a dream she had
on this month’s 12th
has nothing
to do with her
imagination. And the green fairy
isn’t always green. She knows this
without taking a sip.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 