Urban archaeology—river
running—the falls
bring it—the power—Emily
dashes for all—what
would she have mused
about the Mississippi
if she had gotten that far? So far
into this overflow.
Emily Dickinson
Where’s the Frozen River?
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest
the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass
Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice
hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.
No More Delivery
On farmer’s market
day, she helps the blind
man find his time
to cross. The colors
of a vegetable stand meld
into one kaleidoscope
wish—to do
these things without
announcing them
as some addict’s letter
to the world. This is not
what Emily meant.
Letter to Another World
Emily Dickinson’s soul mate rides
a bicycle down my street. I can tell
it’s him by the way he compresses
his shoulders between parked
and moving cars. Handsome and nimble,
Emily, constant and quick.
Distance Avails Not *
I like to correspond with the dead:
Tell Emily what it’s like to be
a woman alone
in a room
in the 21st.
Ask Walt what he thinks
of the Brooklyn Bridge
127 years after
the fact. The fact is
I can write to anyone. I could
even choose to write
a letter
to you who still breathe.
* from Walt Whitman’s “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry”
Another Circle Poem
Twenty-first century letter
boxers jump the fence
into a dog park, follow
text messages on the tiniest
chance they might match up
all the clues leading them
to the diamond ring
treasure. I’m back one
and a half centuries
with Emily still writing
“my letter to the World
that never wrote to me.”
Emily Said It Too
This light has no logic.
It heats up tinted
images of you wrapping
around the walls
inside my solar
of make believe. No outside
truth will seep through
to stain your well-defined
face. The moment talked about,
its contracting destination
point, hangs
in suspension. We
don’t get there
from here. And that word
I meant to say, but
didn’t dare, is the only way
to arrive at your timbre. It’s up
there too, with its swinging “y”
tail making an underline
exclamation beneath
its other three
letters. They’re up
there to whip subtle
movements off
their hinges. Big,
bold, block pronouncements
too heavy not to fall
eventually.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 