Pot decorates the curb. She doesn’t understand
your words. Not used to you
yet—but she says
she loves you. Better
that way. A voice that smokes down
the river around
Mississippi. Floods
or droughts, you’ll let the intro carry you
through block party
barricades—access is yours
in any language. She’ll be brave
with you to sweep it away.
I’ve wanted to take back
so much more than
the night.
Not in the mood
for making up
prayers. Mnemonic
games go only so far. Silent
letters tickle ankles,
stretch walks beyond midnight
mile markers. This is personal—
trombones kill
the recitation calm.
Incessant talkers deliver
monologues to dead loved ones
before burial, a self-proclaimed born
teacher gossips
to a silent companion. I’m the eavesdropper—
noisy interloper
who won’t say a word.
She sounds like
someone else. Looks different. Philosophies
of life in bas-relief—
especially death. Can you fingerprint
a voice? The deeper
it goes, the more I listen
for other songbirds
gliding across plains.
Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass
wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver
slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama
unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick
walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No
the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.
A life littered, no
clean slates on the mall
for her to slide through. That hole
in your drapes no longer
fools anyone—not even her. She’s more
interested in blinds
that camouflage what sticks
to the pane.
Those fears are no
shows. Disappointment comes
in all shades of red
strained through gray. A night free
of summer’s oppression. Without
sweat, she swears
she can differentiate
between a music
town and one impurely industry.
Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:
a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do
together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do
anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle
of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me
to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break
down inside this scene if
I could see the right water
fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues
harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off
a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.
Tiny red letters
on the back of my ticket
to see you spell out
what’s a legal
baseball game; where I consent
to have my image, likeness, actions,
statements used; who’s at risk
before, during, after the event
in case of injury. Me. What about you?
I see you sling your guitar way beyond
sport—this is passion. I’m prepared
to risk what’s between those bar code spaces
to witness this. No assigned
seat necessary to enjoy the show in all caps.
Mistook
an old building
for a saxophonist
in an alley not a jazz club
tonight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 