I could be tied up, could
hide in this thick
mass, dictating the time
it will take
to self consume
a trail into tilted shadows. I could
be barley twisted
burning at both ends
of aroma’s blocking. Or, I could
become intoxicated
by this power to refuse
devotion visible
against a snuffer’s insides.
A nose gets cut. Bandaged.
His nose. Not for me
to know how. He does bleed
real blood to match
the true color of his song.
I don’t know how. All bodies
frighten me
with their precious mechanisms.
The way they break down—
His, mine. It can be
too much to bear. My desire
drains blue.
When I was you, I was
still drinking
from a fountain on the edge
of some urban park. I was
a city in foreclosure
from itself. You are a better you
than me. I can wear my sidewalks
with pride today, but the night
once stole my stroll
towards the dry well, sand
and twigs left to clog the gutters
leading to my heart. Would you want to be
me, would you sip from my cup?
From stifling coolness
within a parking garage,
from the graphite transfer sound
of a freight elevator shifting floors,
from the deliberate stride
of his black work boots—echo
his escape, his eyes,
three lines.
He motions the wall to tumble,
telephone wires to tense outside
a window, a barricade
withdrawn. He can no longer conceal,
wills stasis to crumble
into being, the outsized beauty
of his surround
crates toward a red bird sky.
Positioned on a bald hilltop, this old
building calls itself
precious. Everyone she knows
is too afraid
to touch it. She’s positioned
aloft, precious
over the river—everyone is too afraid
to touch her. Water moves
only over falls. Winter has slammed
against all she sees
below. When healing does push thaw
forward, she will not be afraid
to put her whole hand in muddy water
to wash away the strange
curse crushed inside stone facades.
Even if she wished,
could she anymore,
if she wished it,
would she dance out
the strange spirit
to carry her from this secure road
to a slather of muck?
To dance out
is to care less,
to give away dreams
you have coveted within
your all-alone nest,
is to offer them stupidly,
to know they will congeal ugly
when music stops. It almost
always does. To dance out
even one more time
is to admit your dreams
are only that. To dance out
is you
who will never believe,
never live off that sickly-sweet air,
never ask the clock to stick its hands
into thin-air brew.
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Polka-dotted purple martin
hotels create symmetry for one
home not far
from Retreat Drive. A warm
Sunday morning late
November south
of the lake by many miles.
I don’t really know where I am—
only that I’m not framing my own
home, am still hoping
to spend one night in a hotel
in my own town.
A florist indulges
in soliloquy. I pass
by without knowing
the hours. It takes a skyway
to access
desperation this whorled.
Art is like a sponge. No,
that’s not it. If
it were, then the ocean
would protect muses
till they were ready. Then,
discipline would float
more than it does.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 