And then finally the rain
comes to crash night into its lover
lighting to pronounce a distant crack
of ecstasy. I won’t go
to the window. I know. Tomorrow
morning the world
will smell of lilacs and the memory
of wet concrete
and bark. And into it
I will walk around a corner
ready to give desire
another chance.
She’s going to write another
poem about how she almost
moved
to Georgia. And she’ll use
move
at least two more times
before finding relief
for a blistered left
thumb. This burn—an accident.
An embarrassment.
An encounter
with a flat
iron nothing like the wedge
of a building where her former
self began.
Then the move
back
to Connecticut, then the big one
to Minneapolis—not Athens.
One music town
or another
moves
ahead. A northern girl
in the end—so far.
Not ready for the flash
mob to erase her
memory of him. Or
his name. She confesses
to her Connecticut days
and nights. No one
will recognize her
in this white tee, black
hoody, blue jeans, white
sneakers. She could—and
she will—take
another route home.
To believe a city’s breathing
can awaken prairie grass,
to know a river
did not freeze
behind her, to inspect
high clouds in search
of an old lover’s
face (any one would do)
is to be
more than a witness
to these strange days,
stranger nights.
She opens the cupboard to run
her fingers along those tin
canisters
of sleep. Which one
tonight? Where
does she want to go? Who
does she want
to encounter in her nightgown
in the rain? And those questions
she won’t ask: Why
don’t scandals have names
like hurricanes? Monosyllabic
male names: Jon, Jay,
Bill, Mike, Dirk, Al, Zeus,
Jim, Dick. No doubt
about it—her dreams bend
genres and tend to leak
if tipped too far forward.
Traditional red: stop
sign, fire
hydrant, maraschino
cherry. Other
options: a roof
over a white
house, knit cap
and gloves, her lipstick,
the letters on the book
cover I’m reading. The strangest
ones: a squirrel
on a tree
branch, the grass
beneath, the sky
above, a priest’s
shoes, the color
I choose to symbolize
my quiet nights.
I steal. It’s my nature. No license.
So I will count three loves
although there have been
so many more.
Lover #1 had no licenses. Didn’t need
one to play guitar. He jumped
off a stage to kiss me. But there were
so many more.
Lover #2 was made of glass
and tall and straight
and bottomless, which was
the little problem that became
my big problem along with
so many more.
Lover #3 is a secret
especially to me. I’m told
to pray and he will come. But
I only half believe. I worship
the moon, and she has no time
for such nonsense.
So no more.
No chance for nighttime
dreaming—a neighbor’s dance
beat disruptions wreck
any hope
of true REM. Her tolerance
for talking to drunks
has diminished
over a decade in reprieve
till it’s shrunk
to the size of a single shot
of espresso
she’s going to sip
in the morning start-over.
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.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 