Enamor is a taste
more than a color. Extrovert
texture. Black cherry—there’s a hue.
Signage means more to her
than the shape
of these chairs. Positive thinking
is a song.
Land of 10,000
Free associate my home
with rehab. Go ahead. Ivy here entwines
a power line, a Jefferson Lines bus
gets towed. I’m on our only light
rail train traveling south. Will make an exit
by air. Wherever I go, I must
rehabilitate or stall out.
Cleveland Graffiti
Burned out, abandoned with warnings that exhale
on the stern facade. One letter per pane, tagger’s red
paint spells it out for me:
E L E V A T O R
S H A F T
D O N O T
E N T E R Never mind
the barbed wire fence, I
wasn’t planning to make that leap. The clock
on that shuttered Romanian community center across
the street reminds me
it’s 5:45 pm
same as last fall and the visit before that. Still there will be
more stairs to climb.
Post Memorial Day
Yesterday morning his brows, last
night armpit hair—adolescence breaks
opens my curiosity. Childless,
I take care not to steal
childhoods, not to smash
them against sea walls
to see what’s inside. Once
hormones begin to kick
in—give the boys the goods
to confound girls, other boys.
I get careless. No more promises
to make before civil twilight.
Arch
His brows came to me
in an early morning
dream—the phase between involuntary
twitching and vision adjusting
to new light. What was irresistible
becomes grotesque. Even I have limits
to exaggeration. My love is
not exponential.
Some of it becomes invisible. Still,
I am pleased to open
my eyes to engage expressions
as they appear.
Can You Hear Me Now?
Get any closer to the mouth
piece could kill you. The bitch
in me steps outside
the invisible line I draw
each morning. I wasn’t paying
attention. Never thought I could
turn anything out. But fear
and pride conspire to plot
a demise—not mine. Not a suicide
left in the garden.
Outage
Within minutes
of waking, she loses
power. What gets restored
smells different
in a more constant
light. It’s here, there—observed,
or not. If she can turn herself in
to weather in all its variations,
(in)visibility, she might just fit
inside this untethered moment.
From West 15th
In rain and close
air, the empty park haunts
her view of what could
have been. More solitude
than romance, determination
not despair, yet this damp
quietude distorts all patterns. Subdued
till a lone man trots along
the southern path. A leather jacket
will need peeling
in sudden heat. And still
she can’t see where ghosts go
to sweat it out.
If You Know Who’s Calling
Why play dumb? If I could
drink, you know
I would. I would,
I would. Never coy,
I might get there
yet. To be protected
by a tall man, aging orange
cat, I would give
myself away. This long
narrow bed is just
for naps. I pretend
to be sleeping—too shy
to pretend
to be dead.
Beneath the Cellar Stair
Each name spelled out
safely, slowly with italics read
in a deeper voice. I’ve known to be
troubled when others speak of me
in the third person. In my presence. I’ve lost
my humanity, ability to reason, the color
in my skin. I’m a slack dummy, stuffing
that’s begun to seep out. And when those who would speak
of me as if
I’ve expired
are now themselves
dead, names
no longer can be pinned
to recognizable sounds. Boldface
gestures go unnoticed. Another crate
of other people’s memories
I must guard with my life.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 