No famous mobile
cutouts on a lawn
will work. A classic dance
piece from 1958
won’t do. None of those
instantly recognizable faces
disturbing the natural
world. Not a mountain—
or cave for gangster ghosts.
The names I know
come from the wrong
household. Your voice
seeps through a vent
beneath the porch.
Meet me there.
Turn the lights way down
low—let’s tell ghost stories to the street
lamps outside. I’ve been looking
at those shadows
on your face all my life. It’s time
we should meet.
Pot decorates the curb. She doesn’t understand
your words. Not used to you
yet—but she says
she loves you. Better
that way. A voice that smokes down
the river around
Mississippi. Floods
or droughts, you’ll let the intro carry you
through block party
barricades—access is yours
in any language. She’ll be brave
with you to sweep it away.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 