You didn’t even meet the life
expectancy of a galvanized
gabion. Nothing quarried
could ever fill you.
In the end, I wouldn’t have satisfied
that thirst for the irretrievable—
youth, unpredictable distortions
of a scrambled mind. It was you
who thought I wasn’t ready
to be so contained. Through mesh
and shadows, I see now
where I might have been
able to tuck myself in.
A legacy of doing
the math, a grandmother with a sixth
grade education and pitch thirst, knew
her numbers.
This social networking age tallies
what can’t be counted
on and loses
track of each heart beat. It could be
my job not to forget.
Three turtles on the back
of a fallen wish bone
branch, I’m looking down
river
again. The chain
of lakes does not captivate.
Without an ocean,
my roots
go thirsting
for a source deep
in the mud. Home
is wherever water carries
forth that voice.
He recreates himself, prepares
to be drunk again. I come
to him with my stainless steel moon
cup, my female thirst, prepare
to be drunk again. He presses
himself, won’t press me.
If I do this, it won’t be his
descent. Is it that I wish to be divine,
or my fear of sticking around
too long—the moon’s rhythm
over the ocean lost.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 