The real growth occurs inside
late night’s lining. Restless
potted plants will barricade his view
of the next scheduled manmade
flood. This habitat
for pigeons has no vacancy. To live
within practice distance of a stadium
would be less disruptive than this collision
of storage histories. Cardboard
for her road show won’t do.
I saw worms everywhere curling
and pulsating across
the sidewalk the day before. Airport
terminal power mysteriously out
the day before. Seductive electricity
shreds after midnight
the day of. Morning showers
give way just long enough
to put me in a Sunday afternoon
trance. Those sirens have nothing
on us—cat and me—the moment
of. Just a few miles north
flattens. The day before
sinks to the muddy bottom
of puddles where urban legends
have drowned.
The taste of dish
soap in her coffee ruins
any chance to spill
dirt about you and that fire
fighter beneath her lilac bush
before it rains.
A reminder to taste
life. A gritty pressure
she climbs the old freight
house stairs—fair trade
and organic maybe, these coffee beans
he roasts are not grown locally
in some Minnesota backyard. A transplant,
she will never be as sustainable
as those local boys
she’s chased into bars, ditches,
haystacks, church
basements, the mouth
of the Mississippi. She’s a trickle
trying to cut a figure
worth restoring. Lime
was her father’s choice.
What’s to become
of the Carnegie—its proud
welcome in columns and fire
places, not flexible
enough to withstand e-books’
mid-morning LED yawn. Even question
marks lose ground as text dispels
subtext contorts context contrives
textile streams this side
of the muddy—I’m gone.
Am arrivals in line with departures
without delay 80% of the time.
A clogged bathroom sink
drain propels her
into a Monday morning
thunderstorm. Most organs can’t be
recycled. Is command
really an alternative
to control? A name attached
to a body is still
just a name. Who she is
when the afternoon sun evaporates
pavement puddles
is another truth.
When this conversion is complete, I will
no longer be compatible
with myself and all
I said and didn’t
repeat. I will become a new country
where roads are paved for pedestrians only. Not
an aside. Center walks will encircle
the island—bridges dismantled, memories
beside the point.
They design Kentucky Derby hats
from precisely cut paper and memories half
illuminated by bourbon and slightly bruised
mint. Wide brimmed around the eye, mine
would go up in flames if
I got too close. Still a conversation before
the heat and muddle could count
towards tomorrow morning’s evening out.
He said she said
there would be no more
words running loose
down paved streets. Potholes
in the sky
over Wisconsin wreck her
concentration as she flies
into the silence
of colors and shapes
ready to be made.
Let the cantillation begin.
Not the way to start a day. Full frontal
male nudity on the screen
last night left her
cold. She would be so lucky to have him
appear in her dreams—
and yet. Just show a little ankle, a bare
forearm, the back
of his thigh. No more holding it in—time
to wash her hair.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 