As I become a lake
in a river, I narrow
my view to lines broken
by bridges, galvanized
steel spider
webs over my head.
I would forget the Liffey,
Erie Canal, pomegranate
seeds tucked inside a secret
pocket of stolen narration.
Would recall another Retreat
Drive and wish
to be remembered
for the scent of rosewater,
not the words I couldn’t
say slowly enough
to make you pause.
One of those downpours, it falls
hard and fast and is gone
before city gulls reach the south quays. No rainbow.
Wrong time of day. The smallest
of Calatrava’s bridges, a steel white winged bird
poised to take flight
over the Liffey. And she is
standing still, at the midway
point, her head bare and bowing forward. Searching
for a lost red scarf, she begins to let go
real tears, the way those embedded glass lights
have been smashed by vandals or too many cars rushing by.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 