A giant billboard boasts
the intrinsic appeal
of Duluth in winter. A woman paces back
and forth beside a café table
as she talks on her cell. I wouldn’t
want to live in a cave
or a cell or
Duluth any time
of year. I’m always early—
overestimating the duration
of everything. I might wait
in a cave
or a cell
for a meeting with one of those blues
harp players who’s never
on time. I don’t think
I’d wait in Duluth.
She sees an old station
wagon with faux wood
paneling parked on the street
outside the Armory—now a parking
garage. In by 9, stay till 3
for the early bird special. It’s not
the ‘70s. She can’t hear Johnny
Nash sing “I Can See Clearly Now”
from an AM radio. Nothing
good can come from trying
to go back there. In a dream,
she is driving to Texas
on interstates in the dark
behind her sister and brother-in-law
till she remembers:
she doesn’t drive.
Who only wears
shades of red
(with black). I could never be
her—the way I give it
away with my eyes. You’ll know
my heart by how
I hold my mouth. All the black
(and red into pink)
won’t shield me
from exposing
the truth on the street.
Never been to Colorado. Don’t know
if I ever will get
over that desire to go
East. With exceptions, a 10-mile
strip of land on either bank
of the Mississippi
River is my invisible
electric fence. A fuchsia
corduroy overcoat and sea
green fishnet
sweater can absorb the shock
only so much.
No pity. No sighs
behind her back. If
she says the word
out loud, it will become
her. No grace
period. She hums
“Female Jesus”
as she walks
the streets alone
at night—that last
Athens, GA, scene
still fresh. No colder
here than there—
and that’s the real pity.
If I concentrate
on the color
I might wear
out tomorrow, I could forget
my father is
a hoarder. Even now, tubes
of ChapStick (without
microphones), rolls
of toilet paper, stacks
of Hershey bars (dark
chocolate without
nuts) surround him.
Whoever stole his stash
of words
isn’t talking.
Looking for a late night
barber, he sees a glass
seahorse in a shop
window. No more eating
fish. Who needs a lip
shine with a whisper
so round? He untangles
his daily geometries, walks
across plaza ice
to get home before
some bicyclist mistakes
him for himself.
The mayor declares no
more skyways. Till what? We learn how
to design the perfect
compass for indoor air? Now that I know
my way around up there after two
decades, I will not give
them up. A hybrid
walk might spread in all directions
on all levels—inside and out.
Before she tells all
in blog hell? Her mind
drizzles dangerously on
winter Sundays. Not
frozen by ironic messages
from a pregnant woman
about saying “baby”
out loud. Maybe it’s not
about the nephew
after all—Baby.
The public safety
building skyway has nothing
in its display case. No hint
of what got abandoned, what could become
enclosed in glass. She could
start over. Wind her way
through 7+ miles
of second floor passageways.
Could comment on the return
of Minnesota winter. But
another tabula rasa
might serve best to shake
her free of this burden of shoulder
shrugging routine.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 