When I was new
in my skin, you rubbed
your sweet lilac fur
against it to let me know
I was no longer an untouchable.
Overnight Poems
Plenum
She hates me. I don’t know why
I told her lover the only thing
he would get from her
is an STD. There’s more
to this story. Don’t tell. Just do it
behind the bridal shop. She could
dance, I could play
ukulele, her lover wrestled
everyone down. She accused me
of stealing her minutes. Find me
relief from this pressure
to time share before it’s too late.
Day 3,102
Rape or fantasy, a cat swimming
or drowning
in a river with no name. It had a name
I couldn’t remember as the dream drained
out. Comedians recite poetry—I can’t
write the words cancer, blood, weapon. No
courage. The very subjects I avoid
are the ones I should be wrestling
to the warm, dry ground.
For now, a French speaking club takes over
the coffee bar. And this corner
speaks to me without fear.
Rose Water Dram
They design Kentucky Derby hats
from precisely cut paper and memories half
illuminated by bourbon and slightly bruised
mint. Wide brimmed around the eye, mine
would go up in flames if
I got too close. Still a conversation before
the heat and muddle could count
towards tomorrow morning’s evening out.
Efflux
A sharp ripeness that finally surfaces
in the thaw is not yours. You are solitude
well-spun. Shoes collect beneath
your feet to remind you
how slowly things change—till suddenly long
boots make no sense. Rarely do you exit high
lonesome. And to admit it—never.
Epistolary
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.
Reverse Current
“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.
Moonmilk
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.
Good Earth Friday
Bucked on her own bicycle
through Central Park in the rain. Blue
Man Group was still blue
babies recovering from that original choke
without tubes. Never knowing
the price of gas anywhere. She could no more
identify the car you drive than you could
label her a type of flower that grows through cracks
in the sidewalk. Could be any day—she chooses
to call this one her station.
Mosaic
As he disappears
behind a mountain, she sighs
a sigh weighted in sadness,
in regret, in relief. As she remembers
each step they took
toward the bluff before night blanketed them
in desire, she sees a gull
on the rock she had reserved
for them. No longer a them,
she turns her back
to the ocean—no longer in need
of more salt.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 