The same story
in seven different languages.
She can’t find hers. Where? Could be tucked
deep inside
those accordion folds. But, no,
this could be
his. To pretend
to be mute
at this late date could be
his one last act
before a hunger strike pulls
down the red curtain. Or, no,
that one might be
the one she abandoned
years ago at the roadhouse
now something else altogether.
One of thousands left
all over stages and beer
shellacked club floors across
America, I am
the first
to press against
those strings you strung
across his favorite
guitar. Triangular
and blessed chip.
Her urban jungle is ivy
growing over
the southeast
window and an orange
cat looking
out. Birds, squirrels,
gnats, pedestrian souls.
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.
She only hugs me
tighter when the wind picks up
fear and tosses it wickedly
through early fall air. I am proud
to say my hue draws
attention. She blushes
and says thank you as if
they were complimenting her, as if
it were her radiant skin
brightening up the morning. But
she can talk—I can’t. So
there’s that.
Ready? I couldn’t be
more so. Bronze and
hollowed out. A representation
of a shell to protect
living flesh from otherworldly
showers, I live
in imagination. My darkened
green sleeves peering
through heavy
snow—a figment of a woman’s
realized. Disembodied
lips and an armless mannequin
pillar dance with me
on marble over grass. Who’s
watching? Everyone—and
I am cleansed.
(Inspired by Judith Shea’s sculpture of the same name)
I am that fly
on the wall—less
interested in what they are saying
about the arrogance
of that bartender, the scandal
brewing about his niece. More
concerned that the girl
in the red dress
will turn my wall into a sliding
glass door to open
or lean against
with silent longing.
I’m the one he made first. Still leaning
against an unpainted wall and unstrung
in his mind. Far
from perfect, my curves are a first try. But
he finished me
well. And I’m a hit
at campfires deep
in eastern New York forests.
A sculpture outside
another restaurant
that didn’t make it
celebrates a robust
dance in bronze. Limbs
will support a partner’s need
to cry beneath clouds.
Will they break
now or tonight
when reminiscing has begun?
Whose weather will make
the better spin? Some cities
may tie.
Straw was a factor
in his fall. No one drowned
in the river
that day. No more bridges
collapsed
that year. Hay is for
the rest of the time
he considers descent.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 