The bridge is out.
You have no idea
you rejected me. No idea
there was
rejecting to do.
The bridge is out.
Can’t get there
from here—from secret
infatuation to broken
relationship blues
without an instrument—
musical, medical, or
otherwise. My umbrella turns
inside out in the wind.
It’s only a matter
of time before
I get to you. Before
I wrap you
inside my lyric
web where rainwater runs
salty before
sweet. Where praying
mantis myths break
apart as cleanly
as last century love
letters written on
perforated sheets—
unruled. Unruly
and close, another summer
night could go by
without stating
the obvious out loud
to a full moon—more low
hanging fruit
to resist. They say
it’s like riding
a bicycle. Mine has
had no air
in the tires
for a decade.
I keep it
U-locked in
the cellar just in case.
Only a matter
of time. I keep
thieves off the trail
that leads to the real
jewels, booty, swag.
What is there
left to protect?
Only a matter
of time
and distance. I am
the East Coast
Midwestern girl
who tears herself
in two
waiting for you
============ no ===
more ==== black ============== out
Erasure—the last two
lines are not ready.
I’m not ready
to give them—
myself—you—away.
First impressions
lead to fully swinging a quant to shake all
the low-hanging apples from the oldest
tree in the park. Pears
are another story.
He wouldn’t let her put them
in the fridge. She wouldn’t let him turn her
into a fish
to hook and release. No
punts. Seeds float on the surface
of the creek. It moves
so slowly this far north.
He wasn’t the one
who took her by force.
Why would you
brand a hill? The one
with an observatory
watching over it. Where
Jim Carroll told us
to go look at
the fuckin’ stars. Some
of my friends
have died now too.
I get it. Don’t beat up
the mascot cardinal.
We don’t make fun
of your chicken. Okay,
maybe we do.
If I could access
those tunnels again, would I
lose my bearings? My
mind? My swag? A swirl
of graffiti palimpsest
marks the walls—walls
as noisy
with ghosts as those
in Ellis Island station.
I would call it
a bad trip
or underground saudade. If
I had a way in. I am relieved
I don’t.
Pounding on a door
down the hall
to wake up. Then yours. Gas leak.
It’s cold outside
for May. But it’s May.
Neighbors pass
the wine bottle. You accept
the young woman’s blanket
to cover your legs. All clear.
Everyone can go
back inside. Try to sleep
for three hours. Give up. Watch
a solitary figure
walk through
a skyway overhead
on the way
to the train to the plane—
Minneapolis/Saint Paul to
Hartford/Springfield.
No funerals this time.
Don’t take this strong
black coffee
from us—the ones
who have fallen
from branches,
the ones who land
on our feet, the ones
who count bruises
as little blue blessings
about to bloom,
the ones who may become
overripe. We’ve been so dry—
don’t take away this thirst.
day two under
the weather
without a ship
without waves
without a horizon
to save me.
BB King and Franz Wright
have died
I’m hiding
beneath rain
that doesn’t fall
and Emily died
on this day
and Walt registered
Leaves of Grass
and the list goes on
as I wait
for a downpour
Wakes him
to flashbacks. All that
water he wouldn’t
swim in: the length
of the Mississippi,
the Hudson flowing
both ways—half estuary,
half river. The East
River. Who would dare? Who
sings that song?
It’s rhetorical. It’s all
muffled underwater.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 