Clay on their faces—
naked gestures
before jumping
off those cliffs
into the wild
wash. It’s not
over till our giant
returns for his rock
collection and pipe.
Island
CT
Whatever happened to Dumptruck? What
got lost in the Portland quarry has been
recycled into Brooklyn brownstone tall
tales. I used to shout: “Get off
my island” too. Followed by the refrain:
“No one owns
the land.” Thought I was so clever
discovering her getaway
path—used to be mine. You didn’t want
to take it till it became
hers. And definitely no one owns
the water between—no matter
what anyone says. That includes you
singing or talking in your sleep.
True Type
When this conversion is complete, I will
no longer be compatible
with myself and all
I said and didn’t
repeat. I will become a new country
where roads are paved for pedestrians only. Not
an aside. Center walks will encircle
the island—bridges dismantled, memories
beside the point.
Heirloom
An island won’t tell
its stories to just anyone.
She needs to woo its open ocean
side with a promise—
no messages in bottles, no
texting the mainland
after the fishermen bed
down the sun into night.
Red Wing’s Bay Point
She stands beside the wooden no wake
sign to calm those rumblings
inside, steps on a bed of soft,
overripe crabapples
by accident. Laughter
in the slippage. She’s been to the island no state
wishes to claim across the channel—prefers
it from this side. Terror is
a walk across the High Bridge that ties
Minnesota and Wisconsin together
along Highway 63. A club soda to gulp
in the Harbor Bar outside wooded campgrounds.
Yes, vista rather than destination.
Before Our First Kiss
We didn’t know. How
could we? I could be
in the midst
of another halo
shadow over hours
untold. Could be
at the nudge
and pause as they ripen
inside a green house
beneath a green roof.
His lips could be
ready, and I would be unpainted
and preoccupied
with this spot on a Formica
table top. An imaginary island
in an imaginary sea.
Cedar Point Not Lost (Day 2,160: Take 3)
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 