Not tripping
under ladders, the girl
wears lips
on a t-shirt, men
block the entrance
to anywhere
she might want
to pass through
to escape hidden
meanings—but
there were none.
Night Poems
2012 Summer Solstice: June 20
These are
elastic skies
that won’t snap into night
before it’s time to pause under
the cusp.
If It Seems Too Good
To be true, an angel
with tattoos, graffiti
that peels off
in picaresque waves,
unselfish forgery, a silver
dragon gift, fresh
clichés, forgotten
equations, debtor’s
heaven, one red chair
left standing
is a lie.
Severe
Light becomes passive
aggressive with an upturned
umbrella ceiling. Reflected
off nothing more, nothing
less, I might scream, or
quietly hum
in the rain.
Arch
A no loitering sign hidden
from view makes as much
sense as laughter
on demand. Linger
long enough and face
muscles begin to twitch.
That young man
wears his hair like a prohibition
era starlet—or
is it harlot he dreams of
becoming? She could not
pencil in her own
brows if her essence
depended on it.
Nothing Green about the Gold She Sees
Who digs deepest doesn’t always get
to keep the gifts. It helps
for the poet to be
beautiful. Does she believe the homeless
man who shouts
“those are gorgeous legs”? What does she have to lose
now in this 49th year? Maybe earrings—but
nothing else. Jewelry
makes her anxious. When
will the wanting stop?
She had a yellow dress once—
it was too much.
Loading Dock Lost
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.
Havoc Untold
She watches violent,
psychologically disturbing films to calm
down. To forget
the way people unravel at their own
pace. The train rumbles
down its tracks. To speak softly might transport
her further into someone
else’s imagination than releasing another roar.
Won’t See the Great Lake Swimmers Tonight
In her red and white
checked picnic table
cloth pattern dress
and black belt
without so many adjectives, she’s not ready
to be seen
after dark. Not ready
to see a white dwarf
star or terrorist
losing control. She is
ready, however, to witness
shifts in the weather
and small adjustments
to the rock garden
behind the row house
where she used to live.
Scratch
If blank walls are criminal, he’ll obey
the law with a spray can
till he needs a place to sleep. Till walls
become doors that open
onto back alleys
where the sun can’t get in. The spoon
he bends tonight
will be the surface he refuses
to touch at civil dawn. Six degrees
below without hope of a single aubade.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 