She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen
to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill
onto the round table with change.
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Have the right
of way, where do giants go
to rest? No more
shrugging this off, I will stand
straight and knock
all senseless drunks off
their postures. I will,
I will—after I crawl
through this passage
to sweeter light.
Three out of four
ceiling fans spin high
above the café floor. This corner
table doesn’t wobble—she’s free
to write hard or lean heavy
into daydreams long buried
in a cold vault.
Hours before sipping iced raspberry
green tea (the color
of irresistible smiles), she walked
the trail leading out
of town. Began with listening to the first
song on the first album Uncle
Tupelo recorded. Twenty
years ago today, she was still
not here. She believes
in increments. Wonders what happened
to all the percolators. In this green
café, the view of the old CC
across the street zigzags
off the map.
It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
She’s asking
for it. Live a life
without knives
or cars. Crossing
a street, she’s asking for it
to be safe
for this one between
day. A forgotten anniversary
smashes against one
yet to be named. The sound
it makes
soothes. She remembers
Dark Shadows.
Return to sender
flowers with no vase. The best
intentions need little
water to survive. A bouquet
of regrets left
on the stoop. It’s time to give
these stems away.
She watches violent,
psychologically disturbing films to calm
down. To forget
the way people unravel at their own
pace. The train rumbles
down its tracks. To speak softly might transport
her further into someone
else’s imagination than releasing another roar.
On this cross-quarter day,
she walks toward the last
time you fell on concrete
and didn’t cry out. She can’t
undo what’s been done. But
she can scream the loudest
for you.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 