And under glass: Clifford,
the Blind Fairy, Green
Eggs and Ham, Corduroy,
Celia and the Sweet,
Sweet Water, Elsie
Times Eight, and so on
across the plane
of a table top. Hard
cover nonfiction
for legs. I see no reference
books recycled into rocking
chair runners. No poetry
collection lamp stands. But
with eyes closed
anything can be.
The flight across pre-spring
parkland on a hot March
morning, or the sinking
to the bottom
of the Atlantic. Pinging
back and forth between
ocean and river, bicycle
wheel and open
window won’t revive
verbs that prefer
to remain dead.
She opens the cupboard to run
her fingers along those tin
canisters
of sleep. Which one
tonight? Where
does she want to go? Who
does she want
to encounter in her nightgown
in the rain? And those questions
she won’t ask: Why
don’t scandals have names
like hurricanes? Monosyllabic
male names: Jon, Jay,
Bill, Mike, Dirk, Al, Zeus,
Jim, Dick. No doubt
about it—her dreams bend
genres and tend to leak
if tipped too far forward.
I’m no longer
a Manhattan with rye,
the suit with one sugar cube, or
the skirt
garnished with a cherry. I’m no longer
eligible to mix
it up on the East Coast. But
visits taken black
filled to the brim
still carry me home.
Packed into a cardboard box
with ly’s dangling
from gaps between
the flaps. I’m done with action
that can’t justify
itself. If an escalator squeaks,
let it squeak. If a cat scratches,
let it. If the box
gets returned to sender
because exile has no zipcode,
let it sit on the stoop
till I’m ready
to unpack it—slowly
cutting off those letters first.
To me, this doesn’t rhyme:
“And the rural route
I can never get out.”*
Last day before daylight
saving time is a spoiler
for spring. First long walk
of the year
without a jacket
unveils last fall’s
aroma being transmitted
from the ground.
Moving away
from the river, I wonder
how saudade can get so landlocked.
Everyone who came
to my birthday party
at the Uptown Bar and Café
that first year
to drink Jägermeister
and beer is dead—
including the Uptown—save me.
* Darin Wald, “Not to Me” (from Big Ditch Road’s Ring)
A paint lab, energy
substation, master
space plan mapping
more than a backyard
newsroom—the day
gets done without
losing a square
foot of roof
garden produce. Someone will
still push the clock
ahead 32 hours
from now. Even urban
farmers need
space to dream.
A basketball left
on a playground half
covered in snow—the view
through the chain
link fence. A typo
in a blog entry posted late
at night—the view
through cleared morning
vision. A mannequin wears
a flowing dress with white
lilies over a background
the color of the inside
of a grapefruit—the view
across an empty plaza. The lipstick
I leave on
this ceramic coffee mug
is the only view
I can touch.
Digital monsters
with moustaches, power
outlets in the café
floor, the names
we never got
right—that door
ought to be
locked. Or, then, not
at all. Why did this
way get invented
if no one is
allowed to go
this way? That
would be called
the last
exits to exist.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 