This spill onto pavers
beneath the bridge beside the river
is her reminder—there are other things
worth fearing
more than an errant fish
hook, a fast woman walking
and expecting past you, even this
sting on scraped knee and toe.
Forgetting how to laugh would be one worthy.
“I also have all space
And St Louis too
Light follows rivers
I do too
Light fades, I pass.”
—Jack Kerouac, from the 55th Chorus of “San Francisco Blues” (Book of Blues)
If this were a poker game,
I would be out
by now. I would be
reflecting on the morning
heron in the stream
between little lake
and wetland infill. Would be
a reflection
of myself on tip toes
hoping to see over
the Hennepin Avenue Bridge
rail to the pull
of the big river
as it takes all the space
it needs to spread
these northern myths
down Saint Louis way.
I would be out and free
to gamble away
another sunset.
Mixed bouquets from a private garden sold
at a farmer’s market stall
Thursdays on the mall—one secured
with elastic and string
to the bridge’s southeast rail
and a note. I can’t make
out any words
save you and peace. His name still
withheld. It’s not
the impact
on water through air once
met metal
ledge, but the force
of those falls against
sad flesh crushing bone.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 