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.
Drops of blood
from an orange awaken
her to choosing. She occupies
the end table because
it’s open. Clean glass
window walls corner
her to be
free to search
an after five
sky. Her findings
will be cataloged
off site.
Won’t be lit up
with LED lights
after civil twilight dies
another daily death. Tomorrow’s
reincarnation won’t be
so famous if Crash
has his way. And we all do
when we speak
the repurposed truth
at the mouth
of some river
or bottom of a canyon
no one remembered
to name.
I would not drive
on the tracks, would
not question the bottle
of French deodorant or bathroom
caulking if asked. If not,
I would leave it
to winter saints
to return the red
dagger signs.
Inflatable buildings
mean nothing
to me. I’ve seen domes
cave under
the weight of too much
winter. Not enough
poses other problems.
To breathe deeply
without fear
of implosion
requires no posing.
No temporary shelter
could hide
this metamorphosis.
I steal. It’s my nature. No license.
So I will count three loves
although there have been
so many more.
Lover #1 had no licenses. Didn’t need
one to play guitar. He jumped
off a stage to kiss me. But there were
so many more.
Lover #2 was made of glass
and tall and straight
and bottomless, which was
the little problem that became
my big problem along with
so many more.
Lover #3 is a secret
especially to me. I’m told
to pray and he will come. But
I only half believe. I worship
the moon, and she has no time
for such nonsense.
So no more.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 