Urban archaeology—river
running—the falls
bring it—the power—Emily
dashes for all—what
would she have mused
about the Mississippi
if she had gotten that far? So far
into this overflow.
Saint Anthony Falls
First Day
Freezing
fog come morning.
Then unbelievable
sunshine shakes the river and falls
awake.
Mud Character
Multistory projections crowd her
view of the river before bottom
dwellers came to divide
it into chapters—a beginning,
middle, end, begin again
in layers over the only naturally occurring
falls. A narrative—perpetual
and more powerful than a light
show or bank swoons—
won’t stick. Who needs
a plot so thick.
Everything Else Is Frozen Sonnet
On the Third Avenue Bridge
over the only spot
where river flow can still be
seen, I let go
of the last trace
of your voice—recording
of how I don’t want
to remember you
erased. What’s left
are those moments
I could see you
still moving. Those falls
rush on a relentless
industrial music.
Farewell Aughts
What began east
of the Mississippi
(a mile or two) ends
west of it (a mile
or two). The living
between has crossed
bridges, barely
without jumping, has crossed
a god (or two). Frozen
but for the falls,
it doesn’t care
where I reside, what
I do when I’m in
overlook position. Whenever
they gather 8 floors up
by the riverside glass
façade, you know
the news isn’t good. Nothing’s
locking through this time
of year. Someone has locked down
temptation once
and for all again. Me,
I’m off that pedway—believing
in movement because
of the falls and everything they touch.
Adaptive Reuser
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.
What Wants to Be Found
Not marble, shale, leftover concrete, pieces of a letter
her grandmother wrote the summer before she died.
An article on the history of Saint Anthony Falls, milling along
the mighty river, grain refined into flour, torn photos revealing explosions
about to happen between two people unraveling
their love. A chapter from a science textbook on estuaries,
salt granules strewn across a diner booth table. A slice of ruby
nagahyde laying on the pavement beside an oversized dumpster,
the blood stain spreading across fertile ground. She places everything side by side,
doesn’t use a blender. Her thinking is as collaged as a map
of her love life before the end of the cold war—overlaps
exposed, tale ends hidden, holes carved into the ice, she might go diving
into the river before it thaws all the way through. The need
to be found has become so acute.
Mississippi River Dirge
Mixed bouquets from a private garden sold
at a farmer’s market stall
Thursdays on the mall—one secured
with elastic and string
to the bridge’s southeast rail
and a note. I can’t make
out any words
save you and peace. His name still
withheld. It’s not
the impact
on water through air once
met metal
ledge, but the force
of those falls against
sad flesh crushing bone.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 