She translates the drip
better than the swish
of paint. Mosquito versus
human better than
mosquito alarms versus
congregating teens.
At what frequency
will they lose her?
Will she choose to give up
delicious solitude
for an evening inside
a crowded music venue?
She doesn’t hear
the answer. She sees
she’s got it all wrong.
The highest frequency
leaves a trail
of graffiti
along a sea wall
she has loved
more than water itself.
I will not use
elephant snot
to remove
the truth seeping
into our concrete
facades. I will not
scratch my way
into your heart.
Won’t turn
“Wash me”
into a mission
statement. I’m not
on a mission
after all.
That can’t be
my voice I hear
narrating this
poem prose poem
preamble. That’s not
the man
I pretend to hide
from when
another hot air
balloon crashes
against a sea wall.
And Martha Graham
dances to the end
of a branch
in this sketch.
when it’s too cold
to snow
or wait for the bus
she walks
with purpose
along a city sidewalk
into a tall building
up a back staircase
through a skyway
to nowhere
reinventing what it means
to arrive
Black squirrels, albino squirrels,
skunks, raccoons, no fish
infest walls, ceilings,
crawl spaces, window wells.
The marsh bleeds in. Whorls
from rushes sprout suddenly,
dangerously as a rogue
eyelash that gets stuck
on the surface. This is
no Cocteau film. This is
my dream to star in.
I’m no star. I’ll be
your Planet 9
for real this time.
I’ll give you a wide berth.
Just let me exert gravity
over some frozen volatiles.
Just give me time
to make it all the way
around in the dark.
No one has seen me
with or without you.
I won’t be demoted
this time. It’s been so long since
I ate meat,
I can’t remember what you did
with the knives.
I can do that?
Become who he will be
before his father’s voice changes
for the better. Without question.
He wants to believe stars
look different when
dandelion clocks fuel
the bonfire rather than
punk or other tinder
before tinder was Tinder.
Become who I am
in a Kokomo family room
when Ziggy sings on TV.
I was an alien
in my own backyard.
The words won’t come.
Ziggy dances,
but someone else plays
guitar. I play piano
left-handed. Become who he is
when he became a she.
I can do that?
She has the deepest voice
in school. The boys
haven’t cracked yet.
She sings left-handed.
We keep time
by the leaving seeds.
spit in my eye
as I skin it alive
and it does sting
and I do finish
the murderous peel
and it does taste tangy
sweet the way
I never did dream
you would be
I want nothing
more than to be
writing another poem
on a train
as it tunnels through
January fog. Who
knew the impression
could cloak
so well. Who knows
where my bare shoulders
will reappear, or when.
Then the fonts—
so physical, so metallic—
will leak precious
angel spit.
Tomorrow’s Five Years Sonnet
I know what I’ll write
tomorrow when the numbers align
with my heart
and lungs.
I don’t know
what to say
about today
in between
the gasp and relief,
freezing rain and fog,
headlights and reflection
of legs propelling
everything we are
forward tomorrow.
Today’s Cinquain: Five Years
Smoke free
today. I won’t
light a Cuban cigar
in Havana next month just cuz
I can.
I remember the number
three and the hill
I drew to depict
life beyond the lagoon.
I remember the three
swings and the starfish
we killed trying
to rescue it.
Turns out they split
in half, transform
from girl to boy to girl again
without our help.
Even then, I knew
to feel guilty
about catching an extra
whiff of gasoline
in the old shingled garage.
Even then, I was
beginning to forget why.
Before I died,
the world flashed a still
photo so quickly
I didn’t have time
to measure its border
against the shore wrack line.
Now a film flickers
on storied brick
with no end or beginning—
only the between.
Everything else
hides behind the wrong
color on the wrong
block. Tin tile
wainscoting wraps
around the hem
of a skirt
no one dares to own.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 