I must learn how
to describe each tiny movement
from solid green to a yellow brushed with red breaking
into orange without
these blocks of language. I turn up the volume
when this instrumental plays—sweet
guitar sings vocal lines, the human voice
at rest. Seductively rich
baritone be still
for these moments, while I work
on my lesson, a thing I am to practice
with my soul—
without a bridge.
No photos ever of me
in Brooklyn. Some in Queens—
an Astoria fourplex with unfinished
hardwood floors. Manhattan all over beginning
inside the helm of the Flat Iron.
The Bronx north of 232nd Street indoors
and out. Even one on Staten Island before
dashing across the Verrazano Narrows
Bridge. Where did they go? I know
they were taken
by the tiny broken locks
in my soul.
But I can’t end
on that—I’ll be the one
stealing, not having earned
the right to mention it—
the soul that is.
No smudge for me.
I don’t succumb to that
ritual anymore. I like
to keep my soul
anonymous.
I’ve forgotten how to walk
down city sidewalks marked
on the outside.
What if someone calls
my name before
I’m ready? I see one, then two,
then remember. A film
maker calls himself
a freak for wearing a perfect cross
shape. But mine were always
spills—stamping
my forehead off center.
An incurable addiction
to the image
that comes on strong,
without warning—blue
bottles emptied of their rose
water gather light
upon a sill. A vine
still holding its dried leaves
tight clings to the window
in the dead
of winter not so dead. Stacks
of CDs cover the clear plastic
lid over a turntable. Everything
collects dust when ignored—especially
the soul.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 