This exquisite solitude
is my ambrosia, soma, cool
breeze coaxing a hammock
on a crest overlooking
a breaking ocean.
Acquired over years
of painful resistance,
even more gruesome
dependence
on a man—any man—this pleasure
dome is equipped with a retractable roof,
an observatory
for observing the hems
of gods. Some of them slightly torn.
Hollow women seek distractions
in you. Numbed
into summer is no way
to look at the moon
each night. That hill won’t hold
all these heavy
limbs and lids. I’ll be the one
to rebel—I don’t want
to be distracted. Let me suck
sustenance from soma goblets
before another civil dawn.
To embarrass a lone monk
she fills herself with oak.
He staggers and
despite everything (which strives to be
nothing)
can’t deny the ecstasy of dwelling
in scents of bark, sap, and
blossom. Before he can steady
his breath, she pours leftover contents
of the moon
into his mouth—pure soma, no
rhubarb substitute will due. But it’s the heat
from her enabler’s hand
he can’t resist.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 