Two turtles sleep
at the entrance
to a subway escalator
that only goes
up. Someone says
they’re hung
over. I don’t believe
him. Suddenly they show
their heads, then legs,
then crawl away. End
of scene—onto that subway
I only see
in dreams. Couldn’t recognize
who was riding
with me this time.
Could have been you.
No cure till the verdict
is read aloud. Till her juror’s oath
is played out,
even a simple metaphor
can’t be
expressed. Nothing implied. All
images captured
must remain sealed
inside a jar
draped in red linen. Even fresh
rain transforming
into snow won’t force a leak.
She’ll tell
you all about it
when the seal’s broken.
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.
Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like
a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me
through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit
W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures
me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts
and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but
this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds
only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.
I’m trying to do the math; then he says it.
An actor becomes a narrator
who mentions the year he was born—is the year
I learned to walk. No coincidence,
no fate—just a fictional character
sending texts to a woman
fond of tracing shadows
without an overhead light.
Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 