Born between
the UK and US
release of the Beatles’
“I Want
to Hold Your Hand,”
she never knew
life before rock
‘n’ roll. Buds on a few
trees—a week
of rain has a disturbed
purpose. She has been
loved this early
in May. Parades with gigantic
puppets have not
been a good sign. Or,
no message to read
at all. It won’t
storm tomorrow.
Hand over palm of other hand,
no one sits
like this anymore. But I
do it because I
want to invoke a god
to this dance
I watch, wondering if
it’s being done right. Because I
need a divine
answer to this mortal question:
Is it ever done right?
I wonder what happens if
my heart stops racing
long enough. There’s a girl
who was born yesterday—
and hers is beating just right.
Sandusky is not merely amusement, not merely
a beer garden, bathhouse, dance
floor where the first lover
would begin to break
my hope over cold water. Edging Lake Erie,
a peninsula not an island
after all, Ohio’s tendency for hills. I stay away
to prevent roller coaster motion
sickness—we’re never cured
from the disease
of memory. What we get
if we’re very lucky, and the light
is with us, is
a daily reprieve from our inner ear’s relentless imbalance.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 