It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start
the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),
a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide
that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him
but never got to know
who he was.
If she could hide
at the back
table in an alley
café, listening
to “Brandy” piped in
from somewhere
behind a bar, she would be
no closer to reaching
you and your unspoken beauty
in paint. Would still not know how
to say hang straight.
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Three out of four
ceiling fans spin high
above the café floor. This corner
table doesn’t wobble—she’s free
to write hard or lean heavy
into daydreams long buried
in a cold vault.
It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
She’s asking
for it. Live a life
without knives
or cars. Crossing
a street, she’s asking for it
to be safe
for this one between
day. A forgotten anniversary
smashes against one
yet to be named. The sound
it makes
soothes. She remembers
Dark Shadows.
Return to sender
flowers with no vase. The best
intentions need little
water to survive. A bouquet
of regrets left
on the stoop. It’s time to give
these stems away.
When he says he wants
to take you
for granted, don’t wait
to take off.
Cinco de Mayo festivals
don’t always fall
on the 5th. When they do,
it’s time to take
our names seriously—or
at least find
an urban maypole
dance to join.
A case of grinding
teeth as if
to shout out:
“I’m still alive!”
A strained ankle
for no reason—could be
misspelled. Those whispers
could mean it’s time to play
dead or to move
farther down river
before the quiet descends again.
A chalkboard to record the names
of childhood heroes. It would be better
if they could rhyme. It would be better
if they could be segregated
from the ones accumulated
later in life. No relatives. No future
lovers. No dead people—although
there’s one rule I might choose to break
over the sound of that ceaseless clapping.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 