“She knew the grammar of least motion.”
—Theodore Roethke, from “The Dream”
These curling waters won’t freeze
even when a spillway channel
halts in its purpose. It’s a long way
to the bayou
from here. Dark chocolate
could almost fuel us
on this journey
to a mouth with many tongues—a roof
all but blown away.
“I almost called these poems
Pickpocket Blues
because they are the repetition
by memory
of earlier poems
stolen from me
b y t w e l v e t h i e v e s.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 2nd Chorus of “Orizaba 210 Blues” (Book of Blues)
She doubts her bones
will be put on display. Sees
how she is blessed. To be a thief
in this time is what’s left. If he channels you
to music, how will she tune in, listen,
take away what she can
to call her own? If possession
is nine tenths, she has her doubts
about the other tenth—does believe
it has something to do with the shape
of the moon and whether she bothers
to look for it each night. Did she steal
that one too?
She seeks a childhood face
along the East Bank, diverted and spilled onto
an empty road, old railroad
tracks framing its riverside.
That this widening band of water flowing south
could be the same river
as the tiny channel
she waded through yesterday up north,
that this unsalted navigational pulse
could reckon with her North Atlantic bias
could all be a signal
calling her to pause here
behind a brick building in an old rail yard
(only a slice of river visible) to see how
no other word, even in this midst,
besides saudade will do.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 