Can you walk barefoot through dune
grass at high
tide and predict how many purple
mussel shells
will be uncovered
next? I wonder if this image of you
I’ve constructed
from ash bark and river glass
could come close
to dampening your bare skin.
mississippi river
Long Distance Brackish Exchange
Just past midnight
wishes travel
instantaneously from the south
shore to the west
bank and beyond
(a mile or so). The drop
of salt
water says to the fresh
one in the middle:
I want
to see pictures.
Too mesmerized
by his voice, how he plays
your guitar, to dig out
my camera,
comes the muddy reply.
I Wouldn’t Dive into You
Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.
Her Burden Doesn’t Go Silently into the Civil Dawn
It was not my choice
to collapse, says
the bridge in pieces
on the west
bank. A strip
of purple light
strikes a pose
across her face. And
she wonders
how it feels to drop
guilt so easily
on vacant land.
Mills—No Barns
No part of this story begins
in a barn. Stalks
of rhubarb become
site non-specific
art in the right
urban hands. A brand
name that uses the color
green may harm
more than tired eyes. Plato
was a man
before a town. The river
will flow with or without
its name spelled
out in blue
on a map
with mills—no barns.
It’s a Three Dog Day
On the 8th floor in April. All graffiti
is political. No bullfrogs in the sculpture
garden that I can see. I would bring
in my gecko
if I had one. Taggers
wrote on the spoon
bridge but not
the cherry. A question that gets erased
before answering—the nonsense
can be the best part.
Looking for a Wye
She follows the river
north. A rail bridge
that goes both ways
conceals the inevitable.
If she hires you
to photograph the real
landscape of her dreams,
be prepared. She’ll expect
a train
on each horizon.
Uncharted
To believe a city’s breathing
can awaken prairie grass,
to know a river
did not freeze
behind her, to inspect
high clouds in search
of an old lover’s
face (any one would do)
is to be
more than a witness
to these strange days,
stranger nights.
Downtown to Uptown
To me, this doesn’t rhyme:
“And the rural route
I can never get out.”*
Last day before daylight
saving time is a spoiler
for spring. First long walk
of the year
without a jacket
unveils last fall’s
aroma being transmitted
from the ground.
Moving away
from the river, I wonder
how saudade can get so landlocked.
Everyone who came
to my birthday party
at the Uptown Bar and Café
that first year
to drink Jägermeister
and beer is dead—
including the Uptown—save me.
* Darin Wald, “Not to Me” (from Big Ditch Road’s Ring)
Overheard
Never been to Colorado. Don’t know
if I ever will get
over that desire to go
East. With exceptions, a 10-mile
strip of land on either bank
of the Mississippi
River is my invisible
electric fence. A fuchsia
corduroy overcoat and sea
green fishnet
sweater can absorb the shock
only so much.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 