Common Roots not the CC
these days. Urban beavers, the storms
of early summer leave barricades
to lake connecting channel paths
I want to follow. I bless
reversible steps—duck and dart
back through without
a scratch. Not going to play pool
in a darkened bar on a sunny afternoon
the way we used to waste
time. I’m still learning the definition
of precious. You’re in it—
and gone forever.
Blow drying leather
sandals she wore
in a downpour does nothing
to relieve her of the desire
to uncover the secret
to standing still. Gerunds are lovable
tools no matter what
that other poet said. Just saying.
This spill onto pavers
beneath the bridge beside the river
is her reminder—there are other things
worth fearing
more than an errant fish
hook, a fast woman walking
and expecting past you, even this
sting on scraped knee and toe.
Forgetting how to laugh would be one worthy.
And what to do
with those nails—I won’t bite
anything that close
to the foundation. Wouldn’t want
that from you. Or
to name you precious
sculpture. We both could stand
to move to the sound
of our own banging hearts.
Rain to bring on the heat, beer
to jump start a government
shut down. I could disappear
behind this digital self
portrait that turned out too dark.
Could take another
image to protect myself
from those gray areas—but I like
this shadow kissing my cheek.
She sounds like
someone else. Looks different. Philosophies
of life in bas-relief—
especially death. Can you fingerprint
a voice? The deeper
it goes, the more I listen
for other songbirds
gliding across plains.
Government shuts down,
mercury goes up,
power goes out,
everyone goes into
their non-virtual silos
of thought. Now more than ever—poetry
and its unbreakable circuits.
Sweat is sweeter
when following these lines.
Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass
wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver
slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama
unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick
walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No
the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.
Pronunciation stiff
from disuse. Fear cracked
and chipped from the antonym. My tone
reveals a humidity
no rain could cure. Too close
for comfort she’ll say. I won’t say a word
as I inhale her breath
from an open window.
Air-conditioning would seal
the hermit in me for good
(and for bad).
A life littered, no
clean slates on the mall
for her to slide through. That hole
in your drapes no longer
fools anyone—not even her. She’s more
interested in blinds
that camouflage what sticks
to the pane.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 