If she’s really letting me
speak
for the first time, I don’t know
where to begin. All those stories
about drawing pictures
in the moonmilk
inside ancient caves and rods
taking longer than cones
to adjust to the dark. That’s not how
I would talk. I don’t have a lisp
or thick Minnesota accent, or
New England one. I will sing
quietly about iron
rail bridges and natural rock
formations and the view
from the top. That’s
exactly what I will do if
she’s for real this time.
Each name spelled out
safely, slowly with italics read
in a deeper voice. I’ve known to be
troubled when others speak of me
in the third person. In my presence. I’ve lost
my humanity, ability to reason, the color
in my skin. I’m a slack dummy, stuffing
that’s begun to seep out. And when those who would speak
of me as if
I’ve expired
are now themselves
dead, names
no longer can be pinned
to recognizable sounds. Boldface
gestures go unnoticed. Another crate
of other people’s memories
I must guard with my life.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 