I would not drive
on the tracks, would
not question the bottle
of French deodorant or bathroom
caulking if asked. If not,
I would leave it
to winter saints
to return the red
dagger signs.
Day Poems
Speaker Less Easy
These legs ache
from the act of hauling
the memory
of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley
dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe
in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness
as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon
as you heard it
in an age before reuse.
No Bus to Abilene
Welcome to your usual
table by the window, to a few
stories behind the Soo Line
clock on the corner. Welcome
back diamond-shaped
laughter without a live
audience. The flowers
you ordered for your mother
should arrive in time
to whisper one more welcome
before walking through
another open door.
This Is Proof
She can count
to infinity, or
as long as she lives
to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches
in the leg
of a wooden desk—
here’s where
it gets locked
in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs
of relief
when another one clicks.
Seen Through Fog
There’s a story behind
Staten Island Ferry
orange. I can’t tell
it but can hear its tone
revealed in a soothing voice-
over through early morning fog.
Routine commuting becomes heightened
by the transcendent
moments before
the marathon begins
on the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge. By a skyline
permanently scarred, by a keel
built with steel
from collapsed towers, by film
and TV footage of our favorite
characters crossing one way
or the other. Sometimes someone
who’s had too much
winds up where he started
without getting closer
to home. Color
declares, or hides, or widens
the channel for multiple
interpretations. Always the same
orange, always the same
distance either way.
Town & Country
She sees an old station
wagon with faux wood
paneling parked on the street
outside the Armory—now a parking
garage. In by 9, stay till 3
for the early bird special. It’s not
the ‘70s. She can’t hear Johnny
Nash sing “I Can See Clearly Now”
from an AM radio. Nothing
good can come from trying
to go back there. In a dream,
she is driving to Texas
on interstates in the dark
behind her sister and brother-in-law
till she remembers:
she doesn’t drive.
Some Gamine
Who only wears
shades of red
(with black). I could never be
her—the way I give it
away with my eyes. You’ll know
my heart by how
I hold my mouth. All the black
(and red into pink)
won’t shield me
from exposing
the truth on the street.
No Spoiler
If I drove a car, it would
not have one. If
I had a baby, I would
try not to overindulge it.
If I built a cottage
near the ocean, I would
be careful not to ruin
the view. If I knew
the ending to a movie, I would
keep it to myself. If
I had a lover, I would
inevitably do just that
before it went too far.
Unfortunately.
Fever Dreams
Two turtles sleep
at the entrance
to a subway escalator
that only goes
up. Someone says
they’re hung
over. I don’t believe
him. Suddenly they show
their heads, then legs,
then crawl away. End
of scene—onto that subway
I only see
in dreams. Couldn’t recognize
who was riding
with me this time.
Could have been you.
Poetic Laryngitis
No cure till the verdict
is read aloud. Till her juror’s oath
is played out,
even a simple metaphor
can’t be
expressed. Nothing implied. All
images captured
must remain sealed
inside a jar
draped in red linen. Even fresh
rain transforming
into snow won’t force a leak.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 