Don’t cut your hair, pull a cap
over the lengthening. Invoke
one ghost and two
other legends still kicking
around what haunts them
at night when stairs are steep,
a cellar two stories deep. Narrative
or none, consistent not
likely, they do what they want. I
see you do too and so much younger. You
may catch up to the age
of your soul, but not yet.
When the surface below
her feet can no longer be
trusted and she can no longer hold
in that scream, sweat and fever break
before unsuspecting eyes. What happens
to old souls at middle
age? She lost hers
in the bottom of a bottle
of Rioja, a fermenting worm hoarding
all visionary movement in its ringed
pulse, only recovered
it in the past decade. Is it preserved
or a witness
to exquisite decay? Relax,
roll with it, let your timbre
do its catch and release. But, no,
she can’t. She’s not ready to expose that worm
to its reflection in the glass
floor. She still believes
a ceiling would be a better prop.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 