She doesn’t visit haunted houses.
But for you she might
walk the disappearing
floor boards just to spy the illusion
of you and those insinuations
your eyes and long fingers held
captive for so many years. Creaks
expose only laughter wrapped
around the mystery
of what might have been. If
only those planks had been
longer, straighter,
of sounder wood.
I see her eyes
in the actor’s face. If
looks could give birth
to laughter, labor
would begin in hidden
murmurs there. The joy
is in riding
the Staten Island Ferry
come winter or late
fall. No one falls
in tonight. No swim will refresh
our thoughts. Lonely and lovely
dance on the deck
under a civil twilight sky.
More than a freshly cut
bundle, more than a bonfire
burning in a field
across the highway, I am
all emotion: no bones,
tendons, skin left.
Everything touches
the raw side—ecstatic
tears, smiles
through grief. I can’t
tell the difference
between my own
laughter, sobs,
orgasms. It’s all
release,
it’s all that’s left,
it’s all I’ve ever been.
Into that laughter she takes
a wrong turn, lands
outside a stone
wall where vines bare
their veins. The host separates
direct light from parallel lines
across
wind-stirred dirt. She picks it up
at the last possible moment
before rain drowns out sound.
More rain and seldom
seen plastic artifacts
possess another route
she takes in laughter—listening
to Dylan does it
every time. If
she had more energy,
she would find the source
of all tears. A crystal
lake miles north, surrounded
by willows and a promise
weather dutifully keeps.
She almost wishes it would
just do it—just snow.
(Do I mention the leopard
skin pill box hat here? Or not.)
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 