This is no Big Sur, Dingle
Peninsula, Wasque—
this is somewhere
in the middle. A river
that has starred
as the main character
in novels, caused cities to be
built, become a final stop
for the tormented
and despairing. It is a river
that should be frozen
by now. That only its fringes
cutting against its banks
are covered in a thin sheet
of ice is another story
that needs to be
told. And I’m no narrator
for the fresh or salt.
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest
the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass
Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice
hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.
A dream is only as true
as its recounting. Insert stalks
of wheatgrass embedded
in translucent partitions
for accent. An ocean
spilling forth on all sides
gets pulled inside
out to become a Midwestern
lake not frozen enough
to hold those images
of ice fishers under
glass. You shake
yourself awake
to make up
what you won’t remember
one hour into it.
Tide rises from all sides—this surround
won’t bring back my father’s words of advice.
In a dream, I refuse to walk along the granite bluff
with my sisters—this is no return to Ireland. This is
what gets made
up before dawn closer to the Mississippi
than any hint of salt. Pastels
on sleeves—watercolors in the sky—pollution
at dusk—can’t have a January
thaw without a frozen
plain. A surreal ocean
comes to mind.
It smells ripe
today—the river. Hope
its wreaking havoc
is done by the time those waters
flow over your bed,
against your banks,
under other bridges
sturdy so far.
Hubs and nests and courses
and old men fishing
in the Mississippi
too close to the urban fray
to be anything but
what they are. I’m the fringe
life centrally located. City hermits
will not unite. But on anonymous
jaunts down avenues
going north/south, we nod
as we pass one another
in steady streams.
This spill onto pavers
beneath the bridge beside the river
is her reminder—there are other things
worth fearing
more than an errant fish
hook, a fast woman walking
and expecting past you, even this
sting on scraped knee and toe.
Forgetting how to laugh would be one worthy.
Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:
a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do
together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do
anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle
of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me
to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break
down inside this scene if
I could see the right water
fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues
harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off
a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.
A reminder to taste
life. A gritty pressure
she climbs the old freight
house stairs—fair trade
and organic maybe, these coffee beans
he roasts are not grown locally
in some Minnesota backyard. A transplant,
she will never be as sustainable
as those local boys
she’s chased into bars, ditches,
haystacks, church
basements, the mouth
of the Mississippi. She’s a trickle
trying to cut a figure
worth restoring. Lime
was her father’s choice.
What’s to become
of the Carnegie—its proud
welcome in columns and fire
places, not flexible
enough to withstand e-books’
mid-morning LED yawn. Even question
marks lose ground as text dispels
subtext contorts context contrives
textile streams this side
of the muddy—I’m gone.
Am arrivals in line with departures
without delay 80% of the time.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 