She waves to the engineer
as an abbreviated freight train passes by—
heading southwest. She’s running
northeast now on snow
and slush. Could be quicksand
in spots, could be something
to complain about. But
she’s already said “hi”
to a XC skier and a couple
of women with dogs. Already made it this far
nearing the north end
of Lake of the Isles
without getting frostbitten
or falling down. May as well lean
in and call it
January bliss.
These are not
tears. A wind
chill emotion erupts
without warning. Who
leaves their dog
outside a café
on a day like today?
Two-inch thick
ice will last
longer than many
relationships.
As I peel
on and off
layers of peace,
another January
gets sealed
shut. Another recipe
scrolls down
the side of a wall
outside a venue
that sells
no food. And these words
will not
be sung indoors.
Beautiful to watch
from a well-sealed
window. Nothing
gets taken
for granted. Feels like
a drop
in ambient thought.
The essential reveals
itself against a pale blue
cloudless sky. Another day
where hope just might burst
through burns awake
to break convection’s hold.
Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.
Beware ice beneath
the door mat. She
may knock you
down with newly retrieved
self-confidence. When it’s this cold,
the surreal slips inside
cracks in doors, walls,
boots, skin. Water is
life or death—depends
on perspective. More
life, she thinks, when she keeps
her balance across thresholds.
Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye
for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—
someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens
around messages that near
miss home.
I will map my avoidance a story
above fear. Frozen
or thawed, it’s got fangs. Transparent
or glazed, it coats the edges
of my motion toward makeshift tunnel
openings. Burrow or bite, the shiny
isn’t always so sweet.
For Steve
A spring rain
essence hangs in the air
on a Saturday morning
in October, triggers memories
of any season
up for grabs. We hunt for rats
in the NYC subway,
on its streets, behind
its garbage bins
in alleys. Summer in the City
always makes a statement
to the nose. Bad
puns and monotony
breaking drinks to keep us
warm on a Minnesota winter
night. I came unprepared. You
had no idea what you were
getting yourself into—out of.
On the west bank
of the Saint Croix,
we read through
all I had written
come spring. It came
so violently, I almost faded
dead away
by my own hand. Was it yours
that crossed out
the almost
18 years later—the slow
desperation of a soul dying
to be free.
I want to make a wish
at an artesian well. Take me
to the old comfort
station near the 125-year-old iron
footbridge. No longer providing relief
to men, women, children passing by,
it aerates the pond. Who will
aerate me?
From this curved history, I can see
a pond in transition—
half ice, half water freed
from the long arm
of Minnesota winter. I don’t need
a hug from that set
of limbs. I’ve wiggled out
of that passive
aggressive affair. Lately, I take
winter in layers, leave it
behind when the last chunk
dissolves to crack open
a warmer motion.
I no longer dread
seeing the old lover—he’s got nothing
on me these days. I know how
to remain unattached. I’m ready
to place my feet before the well,
to drop the coin in.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 