If I could reduce the number
of times a day I believe
I’m a fraud.
Could understand why
some love objects get
labeled the Symbol,
others the Story—never
the End. If you could still
talk, would you tell me
the truth? Did you think
I was a virgin? Could you tell,
or did the blushing
camouflage fact,
heighten fiction’s glow?
If death has not rendered you
speechless, please spill
your signal over this chorus
chanting me home.
Yes, I do this thing to live
life twice.
To get a second chance
to say
the right thing, glance
at you
from the right angle,
take charge
when you hesitate,
lean back
in silence when it’s your turn.
I’ll learn to accept all these
little deaths
when you show me how in the next
revision.
Humor me—let’s pretend
you’re not dead. I’m young
enough to think I can still
drink. To believe you
think about me 30 minutes
before dawn, 30 minutes
after dusk. Not all promises
will be broken. You’ll make me laugh
more than cry. And I’ll see
that ridiculous smile,
those chuckling eyes,
when I can’t stop
writing these poems
about a dead man.
As your front line eroded,
someone else gained an edge.
Only a brisk swim at dawn
could return the equilibrium
your grandparents hoped you’d find.
Just one more question, then I promise
to let you rest in peace:
What did you do with the green
house once you sold off
those last blooms and colors
after your private war had ended?
I like to imagine you may drift
across its threshold
on particularly windy mornings.
Engine shut off,
brakes released.
We rolled the teardrop window car
down the driveway
like spies.
Curfew or no curfew,
we discovered our own
way to decode the night.
If I die tonight, will we
become lovers by tomorrow
evening? Civil twilight to entwine
two severed spirits. Counting
finally done. To drink or not, new
wine or old—it won’t matter. That age gap
sewn up once and for all. If
I make it till morning, I will continue
to keep a record
of what might have been.
I’ve wanted to take back
so much more than
the night.
Not in the mood
for making up
prayers. Mnemonic
games go only so far. Silent
letters tickle ankles,
stretch walks beyond midnight
mile markers. This is personal—
trombones kill
the recitation calm.
And what to do
with those nails—I won’t bite
anything that close
to the foundation. Wouldn’t want
that from you. Or
to name you precious
sculpture. We both could stand
to move to the sound
of our own banging hearts.
Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass
wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver
slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama
unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick
walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No
the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.
Pronunciation stiff
from disuse. Fear cracked
and chipped from the antonym. My tone
reveals a humidity
no rain could cure. Too close
for comfort she’ll say. I won’t say a word
as I inhale her breath
from an open window.
Air-conditioning would seal
the hermit in me for good
(and for bad).
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 