Radiant orchid
throughout each season—even now
when rain can’t quite
wash away the most hardened dirty
snow. Somewhere the temperature
drops just enough at night
before a warming settles in. Somewhere
someone sings,
“California Dreamin’”
to coax things along. Someone
somewhere is still searching
for a word that rhymes
with orange.
It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs
over an outdoor
sconce. Week after
week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears
a recording of her own
voice and wonders who
might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
You are not in
her dream—merely fragments left
behind to prove
you were here. A small sketchbook,
a pair of socks, one
thick glove, a trace
of your carefully constructed
thought. She handles
the sketchbook but
finds an old-fashioned band
flyer with a letter scrawled
on the back
more appealing. Scans
the words—sees her name
near the bottom of the page. Slanted
forward. You know what
they say about that. And then
she wakes up. No idea
what the letter said
about her or who
it was addressed to. It’s 20 below,
and the cat’s licking bedroom
window blinds again.
She waves to the engineer
as an abbreviated freight train passes by—
heading southwest. She’s running
northeast now on snow
and slush. Could be quicksand
in spots, could be something
to complain about. But
she’s already said “hi”
to a XC skier and a couple
of women with dogs. Already made it this far
nearing the north end
of Lake of the Isles
without getting frostbitten
or falling down. May as well lean
in and call it
January bliss.
Problems
with skin and boots
and the lights flicker off—
on again like below zero
sunshine.
All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
café reek
of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference
of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
empty one
is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?
Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.
Yet now
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.
Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.
Begins with
no hidden driveways
for the unlicensed. Then no
skylights in skyways
to confuse this weather. And no
more nowhere
without a degree
of separation from
omnipresent becomes
another verb. But some parts
of the tongue
are just
flavor blind.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 