She almost settles
for a blank page. At the last
minute, she drops
ink—no coloring
inside or outside
the lines. There are none.
Just a geometry
of faith in some kind
of muse. Be it green-tinted
goslings growing by
the second in the grasses
along Lake of the Isles. Or,
some other miracle
still capable of bursting
on the scene upon our poor
wearied planet.
a solitary woman
in an Edward Hopper painting. A silhouette
on an empty
bed, she gazes out an open
window in a New York City
five-story, walk-up. Hair pulled
into a dancer’s bun, dressed
in a pale peach nightgown. Bare
thighs—this is not
loneliness. She becomes
in awe
of herself
and the world
in early morning.
Could be left,
could be right. Before
or after the rain. Ambiguous
warnings are not ambivalent
flashes. Torches puncturing
the dark sky to beckon
and repel
with equal force. And
detours don’t reveal
themselves so easily.
She moves not
just faster but
better when
she doesn’t know
the time. Forecasts
or predictions or
guesses or could be
wishes. A continuum
that ties her
to a fence
just like the wooden
plank one
those boys affixed
her to when
she was three. She couldn’t
tell time
then—was she free?
Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm
so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection
sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still
she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road
death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing
but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.
Clay on their faces—
naked gestures
before jumping
off those cliffs
into the wild
wash. It’s not
over till our giant
returns for his rock
collection and pipe.
Oceans rise
by twelve feet
by when. How to buy
time and use it
to buy more. Who
is selling those years,
months, days, hours. Minutes
available on eBay
to the highest
bidder. Too late. Childhood
memories of a shoreline
cottage won’t wash away
with its stoop. Is it really
too late?
The S slipped
or becomes
silent a month before
the Green Line begins
service between the two
cities. Crosses the river
in light rail stitching.
She saw the test train return
to the larger downtown
this morning. Her faith
in imperfection runs
parallel to
coincidence and letters
that sometimes drop
off without warning.
A set of keys
left in the freezer, another
in the palm
of her hand. Doors
open on contact
in her dream. And the lover
(there’s always a lover)
she’s about to
wake to
jangling metal
is strangely
familiar.
Some days all I can feel is
my father’s handshake. Called a vise
grip by more than one old
beau. An addiction to finger exercises
he did while running
every morning. They kept my own
hands occupied
in the early weeks after quitting
those smokes
he hated viciously. And I still practice
them now that I have returned
to the road and to fight
back tears. No matter how many sets
I do, memories are all that’s left. And the way
they left his mind
too soon.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 