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.
Overnight Poems
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.
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.
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.
Arch
His brows came to me
in an early morning
dream—the phase between involuntary
twitching and vision adjusting
to new light. What was irresistible
becomes grotesque. Even I have limits
to exaggeration. My love is
not exponential.
Some of it becomes invisible. Still,
I am pleased to open
my eyes to engage expressions
as they appear.
Gannon Fling Don’t Mean a Thing
Erie, PA. In the end, I could not
debate away my future, never would win
any argument with this fear
of exclamation
points. You make a living
so well punctuated. I peel off
vices the way we tried them on
for size—a joint in those woods behind
our junior high, a messed-up mixology
with your father’s liquor
in your basement. Slow to get them, suddenly
shoulders drop to lean into it. I rediscover
aftertaste in a name—sour, bitter, could have been
sweet. The jingle was yours. How could we
have known I would end up holding
all the question mark sickles
in my stiffened fists
so many road trips later?
City Twist
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.
No Rapture
Your cat: unphased
by the relentless booming and yellow
shrieks of a late-night electrical storm.
You: awakened to wonder
if it’s time—time to do something
as hail pings against shut windows
the way car wheels turn
on gravel. That’s it—that’s the setting,
action, plot, conclusion, neither
tragic nor comic, open
ended as 3 am in May.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 