Engine shut off,
brakes released.
We rolled the teardrop window car
down the driveway
like spies.
Curfew or no curfew,
we discovered our own
way to decode the night.
Off Sides
What if it was a mistake? You
were to call me and yell into your town’s last land
line, “I’m not dead dear. Stop
spreading those rumors.” Cremated
or buried—cremated and buried. Bridges
open avenues to nonchalance. Back
to the world, a quick flick of the left wrist
and release. Undo that—can’t be done.
Another Letter to a Dead Man
Coincidence? In the hours before you died,
my cat trapped a bat in the claw
foot tub. Played with it almost
to death. When I called a trusted friend to rescue it/
me, we both naively hoped
it might fly into the midnight sky—broken
wing and all. And the hope that I might see you
glide through this life one more time was dashed
against unforgiving pavement in that moment—the one
I wouldn’t know I would desire
to retrieve for years.
Air Mail Through an Open Window
If I die tonight, will we
become lovers by tomorrow
evening? Civil twilight to entwine
two severed spirits. Counting
finally done. To drink or not, new
wine or old—it won’t matter. That age gap
sewn up once and for all. If
I make it till morning, I will continue
to keep a record
of what might have been.
Not Necrophilia
No more the Police’s “Don’t Stand
So Close to Me.” This AA Bondy song, “Mercy
Wheel,” will be our new
our song. Your obituary
says to donate to the American
Heart Association in lieu of flowers—but
you loved them.
Is it because you died
of a broken heart?
Is the reference to the American
Lung Association because the loss
left you unable to breathe?
Past lovers are just that—
in the past. To make love
in a Victorian novel does not require
removing clothes. Consummation
and closure are two different things
you forgot to explain—and now you’re gone.
Dead Man’s Hand
Then he drew a cloud
to hold all the love
letters I wrote
to all those objects
of my obsession. Before
digital mapping the whereabouts
of my heart, there was the weather
and pleas for stamps.
Passion and Closure
You said we need a story
too—all of us do. If only you knew
the truth. You are a sequel
to the one who died
nine years ago. Call me
Lolita once upon a time.
So busy recreating the narrative,
basic needs for water, nutrients, physical
touch become distorted. All narrators
are unreliable—he got killed
off too soon. Do you get the point—
there isn’t one. And I may not mark
my time so fiercely
around you. Each death smacks
of it, then The End
gets misplaced.
Trapezoidal
Back then you said I made you long
for your high school days. I wouldn’t go
back there. Yet I yearn
to make you yearn again. But
too much has come to pass—
including your demise.
Generation Logic
You began the baby
boom—I ended it. JFK shot
your senior year—Lennon
mine. I will read too much
into this symmetry. We look
for patterns in everything,
those of us who have been addicted
to numbers (and such). Chaos
or infinity, we really don’t get to choose.
Furl
Still unsettled hot asphalt
footprints track onto the sidewalk. Haunted
house promotions begin
in August. She looks for verbena along the wrong
boulevard. Tree lawns
for the weary of new
words. One bruise refuses
to blossom, another won’t
fade away. A Friday afternoon—it’s not too late
to retrace her steps. Jazz
trombonist turned portrait photographer—he’s still
the rapist to her.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 