Those fears are no
shows. Disappointment comes
in all shades of red
strained through gray. A night free
of summer’s oppression. Without
sweat, she swears
she can differentiate
between a music
town and one impurely industry.
Author: Arambler
Personal Hydraulics
She drinks more
water to open
her mind. This ache
in her shin won’t inform
a drought. Walk up
another hill before the next
rain storm floods these leftover
rivulets. She whispers. A reminder
to self could be just the explosion
her neighbors need to see
the truth about sound
beneath a quarter moon.
Lysistrata Dreaming
Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:
a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do
together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do
anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle
of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me
to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break
down inside this scene if
I could see the right water
fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues
harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off
a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.
East Chop
He didn’t learn
his long division
in time. She began to walk
to school when she was three. Photos
of lighthouses do not
sink. She missed
her chance to belong
to one island
when she cheated. Fell
in love
with another. Manhattan.
Strangely, it still comes as a surprise—
it is one too.
Been Half a Year
without jumping through smoke
rings to find a trap
door you hint may lead
to solace. I imagine dropping
into a room filled with easy
breathing naked apes. I like my air
not so conditioned, like
to check those back
burners to ensure the pilot
light hasn’t died
with a summer breeze
that got too big
to ignore. Dizzy with oxygen,
I remember that boy who smashed
his fist through a glass pane
in our French door—so desperate
to escape 1969 bedroom
community ennui. One bloody wrist, a siren,
and that blue
cold stillness in his eyes. Now I could
just laugh
at these green candles
someone might ignite
if they want to.
Scent of Carriage Horse Relief
A virtual affair they won’t
acknowledge face to face. Toe
to toe helpless
in July heat. Computer aided
breezes don’t count
especially when the sound
of shoed hooves against pavement
is on mute.
Excerpted
If I leave out day one,
I might forget
to laugh, might fade out
too young. If I skip
my namesake, the end
might never come. Couldn’t sacrifice
anything in the middle. Inside there,
I howl—humor or horror—
I howl again.
Not a Stub
Tiny red letters
on the back of my ticket
to see you spell out
what’s a legal
baseball game; where I consent
to have my image, likeness, actions,
statements used; who’s at risk
before, during, after the event
in case of injury. Me. What about you?
I see you sling your guitar way beyond
sport—this is passion. I’m prepared
to risk what’s between those bar code spaces
to witness this. No assigned
seat necessary to enjoy the show in all caps.
Dammed
Rivers
will fall over
themselves to get to you
till hidden locks without keys block
their reach.
Roots System Hardiness
Minneapolis, zone 4 more so
than 5. New York City, 7. Only odd ones
get full excavation
treatment for this reassembled
world. Don’t forget tonight’s hard
working crooner, guitar
string shredder. Buy the music
for now and for another
night, for this and another
man who would put himself
back together in new time—
more so than zone.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 