Every effort is a thing
to behold in shadow before night
ignites. To italicize
every thought is to shrink from particles
in my own breath. I’m not ready
to embrace new overexposures. To increase my own
leading could answer a few questions. Could be
justification. What’s left
will not be kerned.
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.
A wedge of lime and one of lemon
in her drink—is it allowed? Scorn
for the drunk who smashes
into her—is it allowed? Reading
poetry by candlelight in First
Avenue before the main act takes
the stage—is it allowed? A woman
crunches on something in a plastic bag—the sound
of almost breaking teeth, is it
allowed? She’s on edge—with or without
permission—even as the sun opens
wide a written-off day. Your ghost
keeps showing up uninvited.
With this table flush
against the peach
wall. Words and precious
residue won’t spill. Salvage
everything save time. Nothing
but it will do. Wobbles is a copout
term. Tabula rasa even worse. Clutter
corrects itself
while she works. Evening retrieval
would secure her—sustain us best.
I baptize myself in rosewater
to shield this body
from those thoughts. A reminder—
we all have a scent. Alcohol
breath that burns
the back of my neck
in a crowded theater was mine
a decade ago. It’s true—we’re the last to know.
Rivers are larger than creeks are larger than
brooks are larger than runs. The man
you couldn’t get to that unnamed European airport
in time with is not the same man
you loved twenty years ago who would never sing
in front of an audience in a greenhouse. Or anywhere.
That was just a dream. Wouldn’t sing for anyone—not even you,
his precious cargo. He is not the same
man you wish would come out and play again. He would sing
for anyone—everyone. Would rather not
say a word when the music stops. He is not the same
man who wrote you a letter—one. Called you
on the phone—once. Meet me in the City. You could be
still waiting for him outside the bow of the Flat
Iron Building. But he’s not the same. Neither are you.
“Let’s put our heads together, start a new country up.
Underneath the river bed, we burned the river down.
This is where they walked, swam, hunted, danced, and sang.
Take a picture here, take a souvenir. Cuyahoga. Cuyahoga, gone.”
—from the song “Cuyahoga,” by Berry/Buck/Mills/Stipe (REM)
Back in ’88 the hottest heat
wave to hit parts known only to me
for those it was so cold
stories. Post-modern infill spills
onto Old Main Street. The big river never looked
so sad. I would not wade across it
for decades. Just not ready to embrace
that middle seam going all the way up. I didn’t know
the young, crooked one would boomerang
back into my life. I would grow
into the bridge between those two
that would never meet outside
my heart before it became a souvenir.
Pathos or a compulsion
to turn everything outside
into me. I want to steal your pain—
relieve you—but
it’s a lie. I cannot feel
the flare-ups erupting
inside your muscles, joints, trust. Only
a greedy desire to conceal
my own fear inside walls
of an ancient cave
I’ll never enter. Not to see the primitive
finger flutings overhead—I become entangled
in this grotesque silence.
This addiction to nothing is not
the same as an addiction
to air. Living off
coffee and apples
without sleep or shade
is another one. Close
the mouth for good. Lockjaw love
won’t sustain me—nor will you.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 