Earthquake swarms that go
bump in the night as I stumble
through darkness in a jumpsuit
that predicts how I will
feel in 30 years. Can no more tell
how any of us will rate
on the pain scale—emotional, physical,
or spiritual—than you can
know when we’ll go down
stairs without a care
in the world—this or that or any
other one that may or may not
be spinning out there. But
these guesses are infinite—and free.
in echoes. And they walk down a corridor lined with portraits. Hung
inwardly on the walls. Stale messages
from adolescent bullies pull
at the corners of my mouth, clouds dump rain from the blue sky
of my eyes. I hear vice whispered in this escape to a forgotten stone
impasse with portico leanings. The men detach
themselves from those walls to march
through their namesake colonnade. Frames begin to rattle with the motion
of female portraits turning toward me. Face after face to remind me I can touch mine. It is still here
along with life-affirming sadness to strengthen my limbs and salted resolve.
She mourns the hyphens
that have rubbed off, worn away, merged
into their attachments. Language
breathes and breaks
in two—always to be healed
later. Scars visible
but not mentioned. Syllabic
grafts in time, she gives herself
permission to talk
in her sleep—to herself,
to you. And you could reply
if you believe it’s right.
Cave walls inside
a candle prophesize fear
and anxiety lessening
as the flame flickers deeper
into itself. And do you recognize it—am I
about to embrace a moment
that ignited you a century ago? And you
100 years ahead, this could be yours.
How many walls will she paint orange
before the urge to find replacements
dissolves in spirit
of turpentine? It is a question she doesn’t need
to answer till other colors haunt
her, flash inside her eyelids
in jealous rages, till another violent act
unfolds flat against this bare surface.
The color orange engulfs her
in hazy dreams—appears as a sheer
shawl to web her shoulders,
a pair of lace-up long boots
to hug her calves. It’s not the color
she has to relinquish
upon waking. Just the fog
that presses it down, packs it tight
against her chest.
Most—but not all—of the stain
gets removed. A return to wrinkle free
breaths, the smell of snow melt
over concrete, rosewater spilled
on a quilt, the color red buffed
without a hint of orange. It’s not
just about ashes—to strive
for purity even now is worth the energy
it takes to dispute or hang
in willing suspension.
And sometimes we just bounce.
Didn’t see it
coming—this Zen
sadness over the leaving
you. Fear, anxiety, yes,
even anger over a smokeless
sky. Didn’t know
that last flicker would remind me
so much of him
“Throw the calendar away—gonna find a jukebox of steel.”
—Jay Farrar, “Jukebox of Steel”
Don’t ask me to set a date,
to plan my release
from this worn Sisyphean trail—
uphill with no benefits. I only know
how to drop
it,
put my flame
to other things. By sudden impulse,
I hear a message transmitted
where I thought
communication was shot. God
wears new clothes.
I’ll write everything down
so I can forget
you and how you were my last
smoking one, my last
lover to take flame
so literally, the one daily
companion left to invite me
to climb those pariah stairs. It’s time
to put you in the cupboard
behind those pans I never use.
The only things left to shake
are these hands—then they’ll quit too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 