Turns out it was his ambivalence
she couldn’t resist. Turns out she’d rather
get mistaken
for a bag lady than drive a vehicle through
the earth’s heart. Turns
out she might like to wear broad-rimmed sun
hats this summer the way she gave up winter
scarves at the end
of the millennium. Flux
isn’t passion, isn’t nearly
as exquisite
as changing her own mind.
Suffering gratitude is a burden
she will carry from the well
to the fire in a vessel
upon her shoulders—
understanding spilling
like new wine speaking
in tongues to the warmed earth.
She endures the gift exchange
of her clan, a ruby-colored cloth
passed between women till one declares
it will be torn
into a deck of cards
made of erotic fiber.
Small swatches for young men
to pick from, each choosing
randomly until one last piece
is left for the one who has waited
to learn love
with the woman who witnesses
an exquisite act of destruction
in every gift there is.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 