When red
umbrellas bleed
in a late winter rain, all the girls
she used to be
parade down streets
in their yellow slickers and fisherman’s
sou’westers. And who she is
now follows behind
with a tin pail to capture
her favorite
colors before they run
into the gutter.
Skyway food service
shuts down after five—
then the dancing begins. Local hip
hop escapes her
notice but not the flailing
limbs of that young man
with a mop. An ink
and coffee and rain
stained Post-It pad still holds
its orange—a sky
she won’t meet
till winter washes away.
A garden competition to see
who grows
more perennials ends
in a tie. Contiguous means more
to some. To direct
pedestrians around
a pillar without collision
is my definition. Always
a little extra left
over at the end
where those slate
steps fall off.
The fog in my head
is not the one
in yours
that won’t clear. When
there’s nothing left
to hoard, a crack
in the marble will run
the length of the promenade
till it splits open—
a seam of unused words
packed in the foundation
like worms.
I see one in a window and wonder
if they get stale
if left open and untouched
for too long. Half moon gaps
for two or three
letters at a time keep
the surface crisp. Cannot predict
how long before
someone notices the page
she ripped out to make a place
mat for breakfast
guests she won’t invite.
In a transformer
world, carpet
tiles are never new
even when they are—
melted thumb
tacks or dog
collars in a former
life. If I could memorize
a color, I wouldn’t need
a sample room
tucked inside
a satchel. If I could match
that patent
leather red with a ceiling
that used to be
a row
of chairs, I wouldn’t want
to reminisce
about those lacquer days.
I would say
five nice things
about the person
sitting across
from me. But
there’s no one
there. A loud room
can get lonely
too. Sometimes the chalk
board is her
only friend—
that 48-year-old
woman who
isn’t there.
To confuse push
and pull is to break
stride in the midst
of an internal debate. Just as I
still mix
up left and right. A sly
rub over the callous
on my writing hand
index finger confirms
this is
left, not right. If I stop
writing, I’ll be lost.
She could sweat it
out, but it wouldn’t change
the colors, wouldn’t bring
any of them
back. Laughter
doesn’t come easily
for her. She sees
the humor
and the irony
in it all—giggles
on the inside. Does she dare
to read
the Sunday
New York Times
someone left
behind on the table
next to her. Does she dare,
does she dare, does she
dare. One more time
and it could become
a real question
with correct punctuation.
Traditional red: stop
sign, fire
hydrant, maraschino
cherry. Other
options: a roof
over a white
house, knit cap
and gloves, her lipstick,
the letters on the book
cover I’m reading. The strangest
ones: a squirrel
on a tree
branch, the grass
beneath, the sky
above, a priest’s
shoes, the color
I choose to symbolize
my quiet nights.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 