I am an interloper who eavesdrops
on her own dreams. Could be called
repeating myself, could be
that I plagiarize my own
muses. Could be time
to take this industry beyond
these interior walls. Who owns
the rest will follow.
Overnight Poems
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.
White Space
A dream with its middle erased, a phantom
limb—it unnerves her come that moment morning
coffee kicks in. Rain
that doesn’t happen
gets stored in those places no one mentions
in status reports. She’s about
to speak—her own laughter burns
her cheeks. Out of practice, she clears her throat
in a hurry. Still, lyric over
narrative breaks free.
Mississippi Privilege
A companion piece to vintage
postcard greetings, she says hello
to the big river. A swelling
to the brim, this year’s crest still won’t surpass
her expectations—no spilling over downtown
banks. On her ridge
a mile west, she pays
better attention to new lakes
as they make appearances
at street corners. She knows a flood
is no mean fate. Sand bag
preparedness may suffice
here. Oceans away atrocity
continues to rise beyond
calculation and mashed-up time.
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.
Sundialing
Thanks for reminding me how
to seduce mean
from time. I’m lost
inside the simple-eyed cricket
stare of my junk
watch. I want you
on an island next to mine.
We’d build a skyway
then blow it apart
each night in our sleep. I’d build
a dinghy, tuck oars inside
its belly, shove it your way,
get back to this. There would be
no meantime. But, no,
forever those flats, that child
unborn, naturally
washed out with the tide.
I no longer darken—I lighten
my own steps.
Art Therapy?
And now I cannot remember
the anecdote I offered
in a letter I wrote you
before we met. Cannot
recall the other reason
we do this make it up
to believe in something
true—other than just because
it’s what we do. I cannot
prove this rebuilds those crumbling
walls that used to protect us
from ourselves. Some words,
some notes belong together
the way you and I never did.
Fell in Love then Met
Remember when
a nook was a nook, friend
and text were nouns. We were verbs
entwined without
unnecessary articles. I imagine you
the way I did before
we met—and the whole poem collapsed
under the weight of our naked
words. Truth is
what was stranger than
has been replaced with less than
a preoccupation
with middle-aged thighs. And I
recognize this contradicts everything
you presume. Probably. Vain
is still nothing
but a modifier. The end.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 