When he says he wants
to take you
for granted, don’t wait
to take off.
Cinco de Mayo festivals
don’t always fall
on the 5th. When they do,
it’s time to take
our names seriously—or
at least find
an urban maypole
dance to join.
Won’t See the Great Lake Swimmers Tonight
In her red and white
checked picnic table
cloth pattern dress
and black belt
without so many adjectives, she’s not ready
to be seen
after dark. Not ready
to see a white dwarf
star or terrorist
losing control. She is
ready, however, to witness
shifts in the weather
and small adjustments
to the rock garden
behind the row house
where she used to live.
Knock Three Times
A case of grinding
teeth as if
to shout out:
“I’m still alive!”
A strained ankle
for no reason—could be
misspelled. Those whispers
could mean it’s time to play
dead or to move
farther down river
before the quiet descends again.
Eraser Dust
A chalkboard to record the names
of childhood heroes. It would be better
if they could rhyme. It would be better
if they could be segregated
from the ones accumulated
later in life. No relatives. No future
lovers. No dead people—although
there’s one rule I might choose to break
over the sound of that ceaseless clapping.
Scratch
If blank walls are criminal, he’ll obey
the law with a spray can
till he needs a place to sleep. Till walls
become doors that open
onto back alleys
where the sun can’t get in. The spoon
he bends tonight
will be the surface he refuses
to touch at civil dawn. Six degrees
below without hope of a single aubade.
It
Is all that’s left
of the Let It Be Records sign.
She’ll walk on shoulders
of highways—the ones singers warn
might not be too safe. He’ll go back
to Rockville
when all’s said
and done. CT not MD. She can’t go back
to a town
that was never hers. Saudade
can’t be measured
in miles or years left abandoned on corners.
It’s a Three Dog Day
On the 8th floor in April. All graffiti
is political. No bullfrogs in the sculpture
garden that I can see. I would bring
in my gecko
if I had one. Taggers
wrote on the spoon
bridge but not
the cherry. A question that gets erased
before answering—the nonsense
can be the best part.
A Natural Hollow in the Ash
Is where she leaves
her messages. There was a to him
till there wasn’t.
She can’t write
away the ache of witnessing
a parent slowly evaporate
on life’s bark
while still being here. Only a temporary
empty, she’ll be retrieved—
dents banged out,
recycled, refilled.
Then she’ll rest in those concave
curves and remember the name
he gave her might mean Ash.
Ten that Almost Got Away
1. I realize I’m the only one
wearing a hat on the walk to work.
2. Finally find the $100 math error
in a fee proposal.
3. Wonder about green
roofs in strong winds.
4. Wait for a pedestrian
foothold in rush hour traffic.
5. I drift through skyways
with everything on mute.
6. Don’t buy a banana
that’s too yellow.
7. Contemplate the green
banana that never ripened.
8. Notice cufflinks
on sleeves for the first time.
9. I’m relieved to be
ring free.
10. Ready to go home.
Turn to Respond
Poised to take on
another breathing
spell, I brush someone
else’s powdered
sugar off the orange
table. If I ran
into him now
in this rain, who
would ignore whom
first? Offer umbrella
shelter—a cheek
to kiss? He used to curse
me for answering
my own questions. Who’s
left? I am, I say.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 