fucker. The man who snores
in a library coffee bar,
or the man I can only hear
through home stereo speakers—only see
on screens—all strangers
who grapple with their own
mortality. I have mine. Not certain
where the intersection lies. Six degrees
or less—I never had the patience
to measure that distance. Why talk
to your brother’s roommate, when I could be
kissing you full on tonight?
Night Poems
Mud Character
Multistory projections crowd her
view of the river before bottom
dwellers came to divide
it into chapters—a beginning,
middle, end, begin again
in layers over the only naturally occurring
falls. A narrative—perpetual
and more powerful than a light
show or bank swoons—
won’t stick. Who needs
a plot so thick.
Not a Mother Or
To Ohio and back is to be rhythmic
and prodigal. A daughter
and sister from the start. Add
in-law, friend, aunt over
the years. These roles sustained
where that one is not
in any state. Beloved only
to you who cannot be seen.
A plane’s lights flash
in the midnight sky overhead.
Permission to Steal—Granted or Denied
I need some midnight
oil. So you say:
This is my dream property. Hands off.
What my fingertips won’t reach
my imagination strokes. Alert in the dark,
these invisible invaders take
everything and clear
the path for you
to make more. Dream on.
Linen II
A weaver dreams of LED lights laced
into her cloak for a nighttime ride. I prefer
my draping fibers unadorned over
my shoulders, or at the bottom
of my cup first thing
in the morning. I do not deny
her those visions—my own constellations
glimmer in the banjo
of that Otis Taylor song
playing after dark.
Linen
From anxiety to anatomy
of influence, thievery gets defined. Found
beneath invisible matrix lines, each love
letter wears thins till nothing
shows through but the see through
garment of regret. Is that our inheritance?
Can it be something other than
glitter on silk-screened
flowers—daisies or wisteria drive me
up the stucco wall. Nothing precious
about that garden you wear
on your chest—beyond our trembling reach.
Hammering Off the Investment
John Berryman’s name
surfaces twice in one week, Medusa’s head
appears in print, then on a wall, next
a ceiling, or could be hanging midair
in atrium space. Clichés from Friday afternoon
haunt her come Sunday evening, no matter who
she speaks to on Saturday, no matter whose
voice warms then breaks
open her heart. Lost
wax casting is an industry
she can believe in without
having to see. In nine technical steps, her form
is firm and free.
Vacation Blindness
Could be that smell
of the outdoor pool
in the center of a ring
of motor lodge rooms—no interior
hallway, no escape
from a three-year-old’s
fate. Could be those Thanksgiving
celebrations held in hotel
ballrooms—all the family,
including a father’s wives past,
present, future. And affiliated
teens. Could be how adulthood changes
associations to reach this time
of obsession with inns—
urban, seaside, roadside, airport
side, and the stories they hold
for her to rescue. She’s ready
to roll out her ladder, she’s sleeping
in the double bed next to the window
overlooking a courtyard fountain
tonight. Sealed shut,
it barricades her from that pungent hint
of chlorine. Just in case
someone might fall in.
Rearrange This
No precious space, no
books framed to hang
on walls she would only want
to move at the moment
of willingness. That dandelion
tea she spilled on
printouts of online
articles about his song
without dance—not necessary.
An accident she could explain
away with a pilot light
that flickers out—after,
always after the water
boils. The dust of her breathing
skin gets in a little
each night
while she sleeps without fear.
The Other Inn
Mowrey’s Tavern, Cleveland House,
Dunham House, Forest City House, Hotel Cleveland,
Sheraton Cleveland, Stouffer’s Inn
on the Square,
Stouffer Tower City Plaza Hotel, Renaissance
Cleveland Hotel at Tower City
Center. Too many names spill
over her memory of Public Square, the Terminal
Tower when it was still terminal,
but nothing gives. She forgot
to take notes during the seduction.
Here it is—the reason
she built the Take No Heroes Hotel.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 