Syllables smash against
the whitewashed concrete floor below.
Now all I can hear is the sound
of someone else’s ocean
in a conch shell I find buried
beneath a cedar shingle shack,
destroyed by fire. It is no accident.
The day my father dies,
I do not recognize my own name.
Letters taste foreign
as rusted hinges
and shallow pools
of savory brine.
Behind a picture frame, buried
in the sand beneath
handmade cedar shingle
swings, above
the dunes, floating on
the surface of a disturbingly calm
bay, I might discover
my new obsession.
If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.
Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out
tale to find
the way out.
They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me
from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 