Their discussion continually boomeranged
back to the dialectic between body and soul—one can wait,
the other won’t last. And still as time passed,
it was that physical form he would choose. And still
I wonder about separation
anxiety, about the risk
in pulling things apart.
You once said if I didn’t smell
like smoke I would smell
like sex. Now that the air has cleared,
I just want to smell
fresh coffee brewing
come morning, an old book fanning
open in the afternoon, traditional Tibetan
incense burning come evening,
rosewater splashed on my face
before I sleep.
It’s happening again—distortion
in the sky. Not another season
in sight. The man in a neon vest drops
his shovel. A bus rolls up—
wheels on a new white blanket.
Won’t last. Disintegration
at ground level. I watch from my skyway
perch—it is warm up
inside. Which one in stupid hat and gloves
is you? I gave up the search
decades ago. Now I extinguish the light.
You were not allowed
up here—that hole
in the carpet couldn’t be
a careless discard
of one of you. A pizza
delivery man exits an elevator
to one of those office towers—can I
smell it? Oregano,
tobacco, the cigarette
that man outside on the corner
was smoking was too sweet
smelling to be
one of you. Old lovers
who were never really friends. A convenience
store becomes like a liquor
depot—no further purpose.
And I can go anywhere now.
A relief to see no parade
tonight, she still wants
to ask that man who eats
an apple as he exits
a parking ramp
if it’s bad
luck to walk in front
of a fire station’s garage
doors each morning,
then night. If the red light
means anything. If
he has a former lover
who has died too.
Four children four
seasons—does it begin
with spring or winter?
It all depends—
whether we are dormant
before we live, whether
we can begin again, whether
autumn counts at all.
Ink smears over knuckles,
a left-hander drags
her thoughts through the past.
No moment
is left clean.
I will map my avoidance a story
above fear. Frozen
or thawed, it’s got fangs. Transparent
or glazed, it coats the edges
of my motion toward makeshift tunnel
openings. Burrow or bite, the shiny
isn’t always so sweet.
I won’t be the one
who left her purple
gloves on the counter, who cut off
the blind man in limbo
between buildings. Will be
the one looking
for a way around
Holidazzle Parade crowds. I will
return to street level
next time I see
my way home before dark.
She writes about cities—Cincinnati, Red
Wing, Newport, Kent, Fort
Worth—before she sees them
to prepare her soul
for any embedded poetry
that might work itself loose
beneath her feet. Each place is a place
called home
for someone. No one
can knock her off
her footing without her consent.
She just can’t wait
for planes to land, trains
to pull into stations.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 