Burn down a house to preserve
a memory—sunsets flash
in tiny explosions over the roof
for the last time. Tears
to flood the guilt
for what we’ve killed. Paranoia
mistaken for confidence, she stands
alone behind a locked door. So convinced
it won’t get better than when she didn’t know
better, she joins us on the curb. This contagion
compels her to ask what’s next.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Textile
More than surface design, those fibers
take root in her mythmaking
self. Another one makes “we”
an object. She doesn’t know how
to plan B before A, C, or T. Monograms
were not for her. Not enough patience,
or that old needle phobia
resurfacing—it never really left.
All the World’s a Cinquain
Hidden
in all that dross—
there’s you. My perfect poem—
perfect cadence, coincidence
condensed.
1991: A Poem
Dream. Premonition. Mortality
begins now. I give him an anecdote
in a letter—he’ll never receive
my gift. If equilibrium exists, where’s my
ecstasy? My sister and I watch boats go
up and down the terrifyingly calm
Cuyahoga. Aboard the floating
Heartbreak Hotel, it’s all so close—
the banks of the river, a rail bridge ahead, the crushing
of fantasies. But it doesn’t happen
that way. The world begins to tip in a slowed motion. Sights
and sounds expand beyond their original limits. I watch
from another planet as he walks up the aisle. A kiss,
a hand in hand. Shall I be so bold
as to ask you? He asks. We kiss
as if the elevator door would never open again. Lovely
feet and hands. Brown eyes that turn cloudy
green or bottomless black at will—not his. When
he makes love, he talks. He loves
those vocal chords. I retreat
to the lobby bathroom to check
if I’m still wearing
my own skin. Is it mine? Still? Indeed.
Gravity is overrated.
“The Most Fatally Fascinating Thing in America”*
“The stark, unutterable pity,
To be dead, and never again behold my city.”
—James Weldon Johnson, from “My City”
What if this is how it’s going to be—
atmospheric screen frozen,
no rebooting. Only one season left,
all natural warmth from the sun
a myth
our ancestors handed us
on a microwavable platter. The raw
movement dies from lack
of passion.
No more fire
in the belly, no more burning
desire to create friction—
to get next to you. This table wobbles.
That type set to tell on those paintings
has shrunk
to a grunt. I’ve lost
the secret code to maintain
an allusion. This uncoordination
has nothing to do with my left hand.
* James Weldon Johnson, from The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.
Air-Bridged Harbor*
“Whose flame/Is the imprisoned lightning.”
—Emma Lazarus, from “The New Colossus”
In a slow return to daylight after hours, she winks
at March and flirts
with her own promises to wake up
a tiny piece
of dirt. Hers is an impassioned lightning
that could strike
even now—before spring.
* also from Emma Lazarus’ “The New Colossus.”
When She Wears Her Name Inside Out
I see her eyes
in the actor’s face. If
looks could give birth
to laughter, labor
would begin in hidden
murmurs there. The joy
is in riding
the Staten Island Ferry
come winter or late
fall. No one falls
in tonight. No swim will refresh
our thoughts. Lonely and lovely
dance on the deck
under a civil twilight sky.
I Hear the Stoics Speak (Revisited)
in echoes. And they walk down a corridor lined with portraits. Hung
inwardly on the walls. Stale messages
from adolescent bullies pull
at the corners of my mouth, clouds dump rain from the blue sky
of my eyes. I hear vice whispered in this escape to a forgotten stone
impasse with portico leanings. The men detach
themselves from those walls to march
through their namesake colonnade. Frames begin to rattle with the motion
of female portraits turning toward me. Face after face to remind me I can touch mine. It is still here
along with life-affirming sadness to strengthen my limbs and salted resolve.
I Hear the Stoics Speak in Echoes
They walk down a corridor lined
with portraits hung inwardly
on the walls. Stale messages
from adolescent bullies pull
at the corners of my mouth,
clouds dump rain from the blue sky
of my eyes. I hear vice whispered
as I escape to this portico—a forgotten
impasse. When the men detach
themselves from those walls to pass
through their namesake colonnade,
frames begin to rattle
as portraits of women turn toward me. Face
after face to remind me I can touch
mine. It is still here
along with life-affirming sadness
to strengthen my limbs.
Horizontal Escalation
Let this be my plea
for relevance: be it subway
or skyway, I can see myself
out. I know when to exit.
I exist.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 