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.
Humiture
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.
Wrapper
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.
Lost in Circulation
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).
Polka Dotted Umbrella
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.
Oral Savior
Shakes my hand
for choosing to walk
right past that survival
sign. No longer a tobacco
stained talker, I just smile
my way toward prevailing bluffs.
Raw Evaporation
Those fears are no
shows. Disappointment comes
in all shades of red
strained through gray. A night free
of summer’s oppression. Without
sweat, she swears
she can differentiate
between a music
town and one impurely industry.
Personal Hydraulics
She drinks more
water to open
her mind. This ache
in her shin won’t inform
a drought. Walk up
another hill before the next
rain storm floods these leftover
rivulets. She whispers. A reminder
to self could be just the explosion
her neighbors need to see
the truth about sound
beneath a quarter moon.
Lysistrata Dreaming
Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:
a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do
together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do
anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle
of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me
to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break
down inside this scene if
I could see the right water
fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues
harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off
a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.
East Chop
He didn’t learn
his long division
in time. She began to walk
to school when she was three. Photos
of lighthouses do not
sink. She missed
her chance to belong
to one island
when she cheated. Fell
in love
with another. Manhattan.
Strangely, it still comes as a surprise—
it is one too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 