I could continue with
infatuation never kills until
it does. No purple haze,
she would kiss
the ground, eat dirt
again, if she could hold
you longer than a hug
that lasts as long as it takes
to say thank
you. Could turn
a platonic touch
into a secret encounter—your body
against into
hers for a long while.
Those tiny deaths—
they don’t sting too much.
I saw a man dance
with a praying mantis
tonight. I tried
not to be
jealous, but I was. She looked
hungry. I’ve said a prayer
for him but fear his dismount
will be his last.
Steam doesn’t rise
the way she dreamed
when she could
remember to watch
for it. Infrasound below
a register she recognizes
could still
cause a syndrome
or vibration
or jarring
thought to be
released into wind
bursting overnight.
Don’t write about doing
it—do it
(my father would say). Or do
it first, then record it,
relive it, a chance to cheat
time. This life is
no diorama
of a scene on the Brooklyn Bridge
130 years ago. I cannot be
compartmentalized like
a sea room
in the vast Atlantic
on a quiet night.
No explanation
necessary. Introverts
go to parties
willingly. Sip
ice water and talk
about moving, spitting
images, where to buy
parkas, breaking
glass. Sip more
and slip out the only
door before
fireworks take
over the sky.
She might become a square foot
gardener. Her beds
raised and compact, she tends
to her slopes
as intensely as she used to
roll down them.
Her summer
of lust. She used up more
dances on her dance card
(and drink tickets)
that season than most do
in decades. Ran out
of both years ago. Now
she can dance
and run and drink
water from outdoor fountains
all by herself.
Lakes recede
to reveal
what we were thinking
before it
all began. You listened
so well, retained
everything, convinced me
to run
not always solo.
Geothermal energy
not wind power
you argued. I know nothing
about robotics, even less
about how to fathom
your mysterious exit. What
am I supposed to do
with that fact? You won’t
be returning to explain.
The interrupting
cow doesn’t eat
meat or drink
milk or mean
to be so rude.
June 12. But
who cares? She’s
getting on a plane
to leave these twin towns
tomorrow. New York
stories spoken—not
sung. Recover—not
disappear. A Flatiron
Building—not the Flats.
The Hudson and the East—not
the Cuyahoga. And
she’ll cross
the Mississippi, but
she’ll be back.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 