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.
Massage Before or After Hours
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.
Trailing Arbutus
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.
Havoc Untold
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.
Won’t Chase Cars
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.
Haptic—Or Don’t Chase the Bus
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 