Blood absorbed
in the sand
could be
the first
stain of human
contact she can
bear to see. Running
into the open,
circumnavigating
an oval,
she realizes
she could
make room
to go
side by side.
24 Hours in Chicago
If she dreams
of a stranger,
does he become
more than someone
she nods at
on an El train
before noon?
The Loop
is stranger
than she remembered
last time—that heat
wave in October.
A loner
at peace. Bruises
she conceals
from herself
only ache
when she lies.
Lake Effect
What if
one of those 10,000
got lost—would it turn
up across town
tucked between
the circular one
and that snake? What drains
her tonight
will relieve
her some morning
down the road—a mysteriously
winding one. Could have been
stolen, could be returned
before dawn.
Of the Sixties
Love Potion
#9 and all that whipped
cream that didn’t melt
under those harsh
lights. How do you play
an album cover
live? Or cross
the street like one? Or lie
on a park bench
with a smile? She would invent
her own dance
and whistle to respond,
her own style
of window-shopping
through a rainy day.
No Longer Just a Discourse Marker
So the rain
listen to me
so light steady
switches to heavy
with thunder
I’ll listen to you
so it becomes logical
to become
waterlogged without
swimming a lap. So easy
to forget to pay
attention to whomever
we could be.
Sensuous and Sensual Meet in a Dark Alley
Too distracted
to remember to mourn
the death
of romance
in her tale as told
by the most unreliable
narrator. Eyes
that see beyond
any field
of color
she might identify
with. Eyes
she can’t see past
to her next
step down
those flights
of stairs. Eyes
not vocal
chords or ears
this time around.
Night Fell
Slowly as a feather
drifting in luxury
down till it dropped
suddenly—a splat
of cobalt blue
inking the background
in all directions. That plane
taking off
from O’Hare
a week ago
really wasn’t gaining
altitude fast
enough, and I believed
for a moment
that my desire
to see you one more
time would kill
me for real. No near
miss. And then suddenly
it began
to climb,
and I realized
I would make it
back to Minnesota. Anywhere
you hang yourself
and survive
to tell the tale
is home.
Equinox Eve
The last day
of summer gets forgotten—
rafts and dinghies
already stored
in garage rafters
for winter. Some kids
starting their second
month of school. Some years
the leaves are already
turning—not this one.
Grieving the end
of nectarines and plums
over for weeks now. Memories
of swimming
in an ocean or lake or river or creek
in the heat fading
with a full harvest moon
that rose
three nights ago.
She missed it again—but not
the double rainbow that appeared
before a steady mist
accompanied yesterday’s civil
twilight. She won’t forget that.
The Sound of Two Memories Colliding
When he makes
love, he talks—he adores
those vocal chords. But
then subtitles
for the hearing
impaired could be a series
of grunts and snarls, doors
slamming shut—the official
language of last
century’s troubadour. And
those bites were as real
as the slap
in his face—all
while we held each
other’s hearts on mute.
Laugh Phoenix
You are my laughing phoenix,
I am yours.
Our cackling woke the dead.
Endlessly we cracked jokes
waiting for the fire engines (not red)
to arrive.
No, wait! Hurry! Get back
inside. Let the smoke
choke us out of five hundred years’
worth of played-out puns.
Six hundred too many Arabian nights
have us cracked up under the moon.
Reduced to ashes, we could ask to be blood-red,
winged beauties next to one another
shaking feathers forever in the desert.
But you would not reinvent yourself
with me. For me,
the ashes scatter irreverently. For you,
tradition’s fire in the belly burns
as you wait for ladders and hoses.
Dry as the skin of wakened dead,
the puns will reduce me
to tears for five hundred or so
more years. Unless, of course,
you weren’t my last,
laughing one.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 