No one mispronounces her
name the way she wishes.
No habit defines her perfectly.
Except solitude
as it gets tucked inside
the boots of a crowd.
She tells the truth
because she forgets
her lines again.
Going off
script is an addiction
she confesses
at the least possible
moment before boarding
a plane heading east.
When she arrives,
she will plant wisteria seeds
in your bower.
Will ignore the danger
that comes
from knowing you
may not Google yourself,
but she will.
When I say bevel
my corners,
I mean those places
where I go
to break
from the tyranny
of worshipping parallel
lines. My love
of trains
and sidewalks
may outlast all others.
I thrive
on nonsense.
Feed me at daybreak
more than you can
import in a month.
I will be starved
for more before another blood
memory snaps
all the tree branches
and crashes on
the roof at noon.
The drinking
glass I smashed
last night
will heal by evening
if you want. If I want,
I go to one
of those corners
and search
for exposed edges
to my heart
to file down. Any
woodworking tool will do.
Invisible or forgotten.
Not both.
To slip through a moving crowd
on a New York City sidewalk unrecognized,
without falling through a subway grate.
To walk past a construction site
without a glance, let alone cat call,
directed her way.
To ask Siri a simple question
and get no reply.
Or, to go whole weeks
without a single text, email, Facebook message,
phone call to reply to.
To discover he really did leave
to catch the last ferry
without her.
To be given a choice,
she keeps slipping through,
dodging ironwork lattices.
It’s not a cool breeze,
but a steamy, cloying one after all.
a box full of springs
a barren field
breath visible in cold air
a long crooked trail through a forest
overlooking an ocean
a notebook left on a table
in an outdoor cafe
its blank pages flapping in the wind
the first red leaf dangling from an oak
the dot on a lowercase i
rolling under the couch
stale bread crumbs scattered on the floor
a whole basket of glyphs
covered with a gingham cloth napkin
anything that gets caught in a sink drain
centrifugal force and other myths
wrapped around a rock
tied to a string
before the spinning begins
what’s left when it stops
Hit by a stun gun
or tranquilizer dart,
she can’t tell.
Two hipster dudes
in skinny jeans, rolled-up
sleeves, creative facial hair,
bang on a beat-up
piano rolled onto the sidewalk.
Yesterday it stood
abandoned on the tree
lawn, fallboard down.
Summer passes the baton
to Fall. It doesn’t go smoothly.
Summer resists letting go.
Drops it on purpose.
Fall swoops in, takes hold,
appears to have a firm grip,
begins shaking leaves,
dries out the air.
But then Summer’s last breath,
hot and pungent,
burns off morning frost,
suppresses red and orange brilliance.
Fools, everyone, for a single
strange day in October.
Dance transforming quietude,
song breaking silence.
She refuses to commit
to a mood
till the keys declare
up or down.
a wooden window frame
cracked at the bottom
three biodegradable boxes
of soup still sealed shut
a broken electric shock
handshake toy
set to repeat twenty times
at eight-second intervals
still broken
nine wiffle balls
painted blue
four tiny bottles
of grape colored nail polish
without brushes
five Paul Newman
Forever stamps
a mirror image of myself
getting lost
on a dirt road
“The left hand is thousands of years older
than the right, that’s why most people
still don’t know how to use it.”
—Dean Young (from “Dragonfly”)
You hold a number,
no, a number sign, no,
a hash, no, hashtag
in your left hand.
Ready to fling it
over the chainlink fence.
You hope it won’t behave
like a boomerang,
like an old lover
who returns
one too many times
without an alibi or straight line.
Each prong
has a parallel mate
no matter how
you flip it. Four simple lines
become a safety net
to catch you
when you leap.
A perch is a perch
is a lover
of freshwater
gasps. You hope
the neighboring bracket
pair makes a better
flotation device than hugger.
The last time
I took mushrooms
I got stuck
under the East River
in a subway car
for more than a half
century tucked into
an hour. More than
just another bad trip.
I wish I’d been alone
with only strangers
down there. Regrets.
I claim to have none.
Then another ex-lover
reel plays
in a too well-lighted room.
No blinds, shades, curtains,
not even a ratty sheet
to use
to cover those outsized
windows. I can’t tell the difference
between fresh and salt
water thoughts
from this view. An angry sun
leads to the worst
bouts of shame. When it’s over,
I always feel a little
embarrassed that I let it
get that far. That I’ve gotten
on the wrong train.
Can’t really blame the guy.
Not the subway, city
dwellers, or even the chemicals.
It’s never the river’s fault
especially when the river
is really a strait.
The wind dies.
Sails go slack.
Standing water
overripens in a fountain.
Knots in her throat loosen.
Her heart goes numb.
She can hear music playing
on a radio.
The words to the song
don’t register.
Afternoon sun
doesn’t warm her legs.
She looks up where a swirl
of marbleized clouds
cannot hide the blue.
September blue.
Another September 11th sky
stained with memory and silence.
It’s Tinker Bell, clutching
her one feeling
at a time. No,
it’s a trained hummingbird.
No, my guardian angel or
the street genius.
It’s a selfie drone
that hovers overhead
to protect or endanger
my airspace—
depending on mood
and time of day.
When I close my eyes,
I see it could be
a Mellotron or a real Dobro
that breaks my heart.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 