On the 8th floor in April. All graffiti
is political. No bullfrogs in the sculpture
garden that I can see. I would bring
in my gecko
if I had one. Taggers
wrote on the spoon
bridge but not
the cherry. A question that gets erased
before answering—the nonsense
can be the best part.
All chairs face the window
onto the street when it rains. For a split
second, I forget why
I’m worried. It makes me anxious—
this forgetting. Then I remember: that death
thing. The when, where, and why
of it. No, that’s not it.
Can I walk the mile home without ruining
all that I’ve tried to iron
flat? Will I be able to pull that umbrella
from my pack in time? Will the laundry room
be empty tonight? What a relief.
Two lipsticks total
euphoric recall
beyond what this purse
can hold. To be high
above the trees
on a balcony
railed with red
metal is the opening
scene, is the last
time she almost fell
into a black
out. Period. Under
any conditions
there will be
red lips.
She’s going to write another
poem about how she almost
moved
to Georgia. And she’ll use
move
at least two more times
before finding relief
for a blistered left
thumb. This burn—an accident.
An embarrassment.
An encounter
with a flat
iron nothing like the wedge
of a building where her former
self began.
Then the move
back
to Connecticut, then the big one
to Minneapolis—not Athens.
One music town
or another
moves
ahead. A northern girl
in the end—so far.
A citrus hangover on a humid spring
Sunday leaves her certain
she can smell the lilac bushes
on an island she used to know. What if
a bridge of land appeared above
the white caps to graft it to the cape.
She would still take the ferry. Would still hear the almost
in peninsula. She would still believe
in separation
over creation myths. And still want
to build her hotel
for pariahs on the clay
cliffs overlooking that wild
side of the Atlantic.
She follows the river
north. A rail bridge
that goes both ways
conceals the inevitable.
If she hires you
to photograph the real
landscape of her dreams,
be prepared. She’ll expect
a train
on each horizon.
To judge the games
others watch, their fictions,
what’s cold
to another person’s skin. She watches
seasons break
down, intersect, run
along parallel tracks
like subway lines
because she sometimes counts
more than four. And who’s going
to tell her to tally
the world another way?
She pitches pennies
on the floor in the back
of a New York taxi cab
with twins
she used to know. Thirty-five
years. Nap dreams mean
nothing unless she chooses
to shape them
into visions to augment
the afternoon light.
She’s not going to
google those boys—
learned her lesson.
She doesn’t want to kill
off any more of her past
sooner than it needs to expire.
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.
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)
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 