This bleeding is a reminder—
not all watermarks spring
from water, not all spills
are toxic, not all rain washes
away grit, not all words
make it to the next day. She’ll do her best
to read another message
that might hang in suspension
without slipping
out of place. She could become
in place if she refused
to grimace over outpourings.
It is by abandonment
I come to this place
of landing, this state
of delivered from evil
or angels mind. Through clouds,
descent,
the wing behind me, The City
below,
a capitalization
I won’t deny. The loss
of symmetry is
only part of the story.
Months go by, plans
straightened and stacked
against a retaining
wall. One strong June blast
of warm air, and she’s off
her stoop, she’s scrambling
to recollect. The reshuffle
comes out as red as
an improvised sunset
backing off a river.
A cool-down precedes another
runaway from the resurfacing
of every tiny ache and sting
she’s known—by choice
or not. Good
sleeping weather, she hopes
to leave unwelcome
reverberation on her pillow,
hopes to be able to say
what she means to the aerial view
she’ll wave away
as the plane takes her
to a reunion with other scraps
she left behind
by choice. It’s a risk—that word
and its closest relations.
Watching the time drag
itself through the driest
dirt, she wants to kneel
into it and scoop
handfuls into her gaping
mouth, wants to swallow expectations
whole. Then spit them out.
She knows she can’t
have it both ways.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 