Afterthoughts dance a revel before
me in their borrowed tunics
and repurposed top
hats. I would like to see
that cellar retrofitted
beneath the surface
that cannot be defined. I
imagine how it would be
to submerge an old Airstream—
my silver bullet travels
just under the earth’s skin. I cringe
but then applaud
the rising courage that gets
partially skimmed off.
Vo-tech, high-rise
stack of comic book
spines, staples get removed.
I’m not ready to give
up Babel or what Borges said.
I won’t slam.
Not built for long-term love
excursions, she seeks a glimmer
in a warmer gray—couldn’t
draw a picture to convey her way
through an open door.
To fiddle with a lock and swing
into a door jam
is
the extent
of her inclination
to reconfigure lines
and what might get shaded
inside. She’s not interested
in that constraint—others float
to the surface
of this potion
she may, or may not, number.
My thighs have turned
a bloodless white. A dry
heaving wind Marilyn
Monroes my dress. A tiny
globe exposed, I walk inside
city limits—checking,
checking, checking
those boundaries I installed
with bare feet
and the promise of late
July rain. A voice
bellows and gusts
from the bottom
of my back
pack. I won’t
reach it
in time. Solitude has sprung
loose again.
Tone deaf, color
blind to the hues
of a man’s gestures. Bored,
shy, turned
on, off—who can
tell? Gossip dug out
of a dumpster, laid
in the mid-summer grass
to dry out, to cure well
enough for a taste. I don’t eat
meat. That’s no excuse.
I’m human. I share
secrets—only my own.
Someone drove a Nash
rambler into my heart.
See these burn scars. I’m knitting them
into poems fast
as I can. Fear is
a cross-stitch I’m
still learning how to work
into a pattern. Perfection
is for the gods.
“Then nothing will remain of the iron age
And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem
Stuck in the world’s thought, splinters of glass
In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the mountain . . .”
—Robinson Jeffers, from “Summer Holiday”
I can find the trash
chute without falling
under its spell. Won’t be abducted
by shattered glass thoughts
desperate to become sand
again. I will recycle myself. Will
find another man
to feed me—am seeking
fresh vegetables, grilled fish, and laughter
sweet as peaches
we’ll dare to eat.
Do I dare—I do not—
to buy a snuff
bottle. Hand-painted,
it comes in a small gold thread
embroidered box
with a latch. If a peach
adorned its glass shell, would I
then? Afraid to ask
questions, I let wondering build
a safety berm
around my modern moat.
What swims through
my muck and murdered
words would not bear
any rings. They’re everywhere—
on fingers, hanging
from ears, wrapped around
planets, even this curved channel
I’ve dug to keep nobody
out. I don’t burn
rose oil, it’s the water
I want to sniff.
It’s this desire
I need to contain.
a dime on the coffee bar tile
floor to pick up, orange
traffic cones inverted
in the sidewalk to ponder. It’s a sign
not to fall
into warning funnels before predictions
of tornado sirens blare over the radio. The handsome
shop keeper who owns that caché tells me
his beautiful dog sleeps
behind the snuff
bottle case. I notice him the way I notice him
so many evenings passing each other by. I go
unnoticed. Lightning inspires
a gray afternoon sky. These things—take
note. A tornado
warning gets canceled—
but what’s that sound?
“Poetry doesn’t know:
The air conditioner
Not in use in winter
Is like my hopes—
Half in, half out.”
—Jack Kerouac, from “Richmond Hill Blues” (Book of Blues)
I have no air
conditioner. No
dishwasher. I have no washing
machine. I am half
in, half out—don’t
take pity on me
because I don’t cook
down suburban roads
in an SUV. I want no mercy
meals from anyone—
not even Kerouac. He’s
dead. I am sitting in
my own lap
topped to wait
for the right moment
to cast a warm glow.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 