She mourns the hyphens
that have rubbed off, worn away, merged
into their attachments. Language
breathes and breaks
in two—always to be healed
later. Scars visible
but not mentioned. Syllabic
grafts in time, she gives herself
permission to talk
in her sleep—to herself,
to you. And you could reply
if you believe it’s right.
If I am everyone
in this dream, who are you
to tell me how
it should end? The use
is mine—and disuse. You are
a figment trapped
in a smoke ring
I rarely produced. You are
the one my unconscious
heart won’t forget.
Winter afternoon naps
are the best. Caged trees
in snow banks stand
for a patience
I’m still learning to wake into.
Let this be my plea
for relevance: be it subway
or skyway, I can see myself
out. I know when to exit.
I exist.
I am a new habit.
It’s Friday, and someone always expires
on a Friday. Old habits die
hard. Otherwise, they would be soft
inclinations not worth
overcoming. This pattern
language needs
no more words.
I challenge you
to an anthropomorphizing duel. How
do we know if the building is alive
or dead, if we have calculated our own life
cycle correctly? At dawn, our sickle-shaped
swords will whip up the air—slice
a few particles of uncertainty, strive
to kill these questions before
lunch. One of us isn’t going to make it
to the counter in time
to witness walls that talk.
Their discussion continually boomeranged
back to the dialectic between body and soul—one can wait,
the other won’t last. And still as time passed,
it was that physical form he would choose. And still
I wonder about separation
anxiety, about the risk
in pulling things apart.
Cave walls inside
a candle prophesize fear
and anxiety lessening
as the flame flickers deeper
into itself. And do you recognize it—am I
about to embrace a moment
that ignited you a century ago? And you
100 years ahead, this could be yours.
How many walls will she paint orange
before the urge to find replacements
dissolves in spirit
of turpentine? It is a question she doesn’t need
to answer till other colors haunt
her, flash inside her eyelids
in jealous rages, till another violent act
unfolds flat against this bare surface.
Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye
for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—
someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens
around messages that near
miss home.
You once said if I didn’t smell
like smoke I would smell
like sex. Now that the air has cleared,
I just want to smell
fresh coffee brewing
come morning, an old book fanning
open in the afternoon, traditional Tibetan
incense burning come evening,
rosewater splashed on my face
before I sleep.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 