You didn’t even meet the life
expectancy of a galvanized
gabion. Nothing quarried
could ever fill you.
In the end, I wouldn’t have satisfied
that thirst for the irretrievable—
youth, unpredictable distortions
of a scrambled mind. It was you
who thought I wasn’t ready
to be so contained. Through mesh
and shadows, I see now
where I might have been
able to tuck myself in.
Engine shut off,
brakes released.
We rolled the teardrop window car
down the driveway
like spies.
Curfew or no curfew,
we discovered our own
way to decode the night.
What if it was a mistake? You
were to call me and yell into your town’s last land
line, “I’m not dead dear. Stop
spreading those rumors.” Cremated
or buried—cremated and buried. Bridges
open avenues to nonchalance. Back
to the world, a quick flick of the left wrist
and release. Undo that—can’t be done.
You said we need a story
too—all of us do. If only you knew
the truth. You are a sequel
to the one who died
nine years ago. Call me
Lolita once upon a time.
So busy recreating the narrative,
basic needs for water, nutrients, physical
touch become distorted. All narrators
are unreliable—he got killed
off too soon. Do you get the point—
there isn’t one. And I may not mark
my time so fiercely
around you. Each death smacks
of it, then The End
gets misplaced.
Back then you said I made you long
for your high school days. I wouldn’t go
back there. Yet I yearn
to make you yearn again. But
too much has come to pass—
including your demise.
You began the baby
boom—I ended it. JFK shot
your senior year—Lennon
mine. I will read too much
into this symmetry. We look
for patterns in everything,
those of us who have been addicted
to numbers (and such). Chaos
or infinity, we really don’t get to choose.
Songs in the sky, white space isn’t white
space anymore. Pauses come loaded
with unbroken, relentless light. A blank
canvas, flat stone plateau—no more
void. Even these empty cans
get filled with purpose
and smoke detector malfunction trickling
out to wake the dead. I see nowhere left to fall
into a truly uninterrupted sleep.
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.
I would recognize that voice—not
the person using it—anywhere. For you,
maybe eyes. Reunions
only work if there was a union
to begin with. It’s no time
for atonement or ridiculous
honesty. Not going
to lean into this one.
Terror in the subway
passages, in skyways, hallways that echo, tunnels
to dangerous thought. Too short,
too short, too short. She breathes
glottal stop free—nothing to keep her from hugging breezes,
kissing trees.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 