Inside the most exquisite
mausoleum ever built
this side
of the Mississippi,
a door to the sunken
garden slams shut
without help
from human or wind.
As I admire the rose
onyx floor with my fingertips
and follow the wedge
of light to its source
(perfectly angled skylight)
above, I wonder if
ghosts monitor
both descents and ascents.
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
If I die tonight, will we
become lovers by tomorrow
evening? Civil twilight to entwine
two severed spirits. Counting
finally done. To drink or not, new
wine or old—it won’t matter. That age gap
sewn up once and for all. If
I make it till morning, I will continue
to keep a record
of what might have been.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 