Into that laughter she takes
a wrong turn, lands
outside a stone
wall where vines bare
their veins. The host separates
direct light from parallel lines
across
wind-stirred dirt. She picks it up
at the last possible moment
before rain drowns out sound.
Going it alone for so long,
she forgets how
to talk to others
after dark. Black hollow platform
shoes and a red dress. Her pocket pal—
a thin blank
book without lines—keeps her
company while she waits
for her light to change.
I am urban
wildlife found in grain elevator
yards abandoned
then reclaimed. I emerge
from sewers with pride.
I’m not afraid
of you. Fly at you
on crowded sidewalks. Swim
beneath barges, sleep in the hollow
of your stoop. Nest
in your overhang. I am
no different from you.
Oh, hyacinth.
And a strip of lilac
cement above a grid
of characterless windows.
She questions
why
a shed needs decorating.
Show me your beams,
my bones, instead.
What a privilege to be
in a booth by herself. What a message
to send in a bottle
filled with air. What a color
to believe in
when the photo turns
out dark. What eyes
to feel upon her. What a shock
to see boxers on a large screen
TV behind the bar. What
a relief not to be teetering
on the edge
of a wooden floor. What a sound
her heart makes
when she recognizes how long
it’s been since she needed
to identify the name of a cocktail—ingredients
weighing her down
cellar steps to irrelevance.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 