Dilated pupils as the sun sets,
I find my way
home by other means.
My parents met outside
an eye doctor’s office. I’m not looking
for it. Patterns can be broken
especially if
I don’t participate
in the first place. The last place
I would hide
in might be so cold.
A V of black
birds moves across
the sky, the bus
is late again. Her stomach
aches from testing
all those body mist
testers—one scent
is too much
for her. Any bird alone
must be lost
she thinks. When she wants
to hide, she goes
to sleep. Figments find her
face up ready
to receive an aroma
therapy of dreams.
Head tilted forward,
she studies
his face, hopes
to learn how to bend
notes to put them
in a jar, poke holes
so they can breathe, warp,
turn into something
else. She’s afraid to dream
what that might be.
She slips through
a gum-cracking crowd
just in time
to shield her eyes
from a parade of ponchos
and cowls getting closer. Wants
to remember to open them
in time to find the perfect
tiny spoon for her diorama
existence of shrinking
days—expanding nights.
If I don’t break
it en route home,
this mason jar
could become the first
glass image
I transform without
getting sand
in my eyes.
Brushed velvet
metal the color
of rich stories
and a dream euphoria
without wine. Italian
acetate won’t be recalled.
Her current favorite
has gone abroad
for the remainder
of the year. Another one
just quit—returned
to the grave without so much
as a simple parting
image. A once reliable one
keeps hiding
downriver. The weather is
unremarkable. No plans
to travel around cliffs
or on crowded trains.
Even a blinking red
traffic safety light
on that man’s messenger
bag in an indoor plaza
leaves her
without illumination. To be chronic
has its challenges—she might borrow
one just to get through this night.
I see
urban hermits
amidst slow-moving crowds
who do not speak of loneliness
exposed.
November mist nowhere
near any Big Sur perch.
This morning might give
way to snow or
nothing at all. I might give
in to references
to vertical transport or
stand on the ground
floor and celebrate
these wooden stairs.
In the basement between
the family and laundry
rooms, a yellow wall
phone hangs—always ready
to be used. And we did
with alarming frequency. Track
lighting reflected in this mug
of coffee twinkles the way
those bulbs screwed into that cellar
ceiling between pipes
never could. Who were we
talking to all those hours? Who’s left
in our lives? I have answers,
and it doesn’t matter. No one expects
them—that’s how it works.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 