Tonight I steal the island.
Tomorrow its sound.
Never will remove the clay.
Night Poems
Don’t Say Catalyst
Another city, another black
bird soars over pedestrian
heads. I have one. The least
unease matures into full-on anxiety
about what clouds
won’t hold. I’m not afraid
to fly but do fear those
with the will
to—agents flying, flew, have flown.
Unshelved
This inner rind is more than a third
place—is the mystery loosened
from its virtual frame. A peaches
crate is just a wooden crate
with spin. The revolutions
per minute for this plane
hum and whir—a fan
for unfurling home’s measures
in one simple night.
Odonata
Take another day, flip
through pages desperately
seeking a poetic
heliport to land on—damselfly
become aware of what’s precious
turf the way no insect
could. Become the contradiction
you’ve dreamed of
embodying all your life. Chuckle
over the claw
foot tub in the middle
of a bedroom in a rundown apartment
in the middle
of last night’s dream. Just that—the criticism
was a mirage. Plans
to plant a garden inside the porcelain
basin no longer necessary. Nothing’s
real anymore, so do it today—do it now.
After Solstice
Chilled by indecision—even a bad choice brings on
summer momentum. I might
go out after
dark. Could swallow flavored water while the camera
runs. Staged accidental
encounters are the new absence
of light
when I dig deep enough into this primitive season.
Measure
Expectations for the long arm
of light to cradle her—better
yet jolt her—into a wider frame
can only lead to one thing:
disillusionment
that after tonight everything begins
to shrink. Or, there’s another one: relief
that summer is poised to stretch across
the best spills and spans.
Permanent Pause
Birthdays are present
tense even when the honoree is past
tense. In a year’s time,
I will surpass him in living
years. It’s a lie
that we can’t catch up
to, surpass, one another. I make
no predictions. Stand still could be
a quality of light
or shade of blue. I can see
only glare—no faces reflected
in the atrium wall, could be
a window if
you’re into that kind of thing.
Labeler
Enamor is a taste
more than a color. Extrovert
texture. Black cherry—there’s a hue.
Signage means more to her
than the shape
of these chairs. Positive thinking
is a song.
Post Memorial Day
Yesterday morning his brows, last
night armpit hair—adolescence breaks
opens my curiosity. Childless,
I take care not to steal
childhoods, not to smash
them against sea walls
to see what’s inside. Once
hormones begin to kick
in—give the boys the goods
to confound girls, other boys.
I get careless. No more promises
to make before civil twilight.
Beneath the Cellar Stair
Each name spelled out
safely, slowly with italics read
in a deeper voice. I’ve known to be
troubled when others speak of me
in the third person. In my presence. I’ve lost
my humanity, ability to reason, the color
in my skin. I’m a slack dummy, stuffing
that’s begun to seep out. And when those who would speak
of me as if
I’ve expired
are now themselves
dead, names
no longer can be pinned
to recognizable sounds. Boldface
gestures go unnoticed. Another crate
of other people’s memories
I must guard with my life.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 