A wedge of lime and one of lemon
in her drink—is it allowed? Scorn
for the drunk who smashes
into her—is it allowed? Reading
poetry by candlelight in First
Avenue before the main act takes
the stage—is it allowed? A woman
crunches on something in a plastic bag—the sound
of almost breaking teeth, is it
allowed? She’s on edge—with or without
permission—even as the sun opens
wide a written-off day. Your ghost
keeps showing up uninvited.
Day 3,115
The taste of dish
soap in her coffee ruins
any chance to spill
dirt about you and that fire
fighter beneath her lilac bush
before it rains.
Enamor
These northern potholes could be
sculptural—but no. Wild ginger
in her hair, no one’s going to tell
her fest is not
a word. Rain
won’t dissolve
the definition. She’ll know by scent
when to pause, take cover, push on.
Lemon in Her Water
A reminder to taste
life. A gritty pressure
she climbs the old freight
house stairs—fair trade
and organic maybe, these coffee beans
he roasts are not grown locally
in some Minnesota backyard. A transplant,
she will never be as sustainable
as those local boys
she’s chased into bars, ditches,
haystacks, church
basements, the mouth
of the Mississippi. She’s a trickle
trying to cut a figure
worth restoring. Lime
was her father’s choice.
Cia
When I was new
in my skin, you rubbed
your sweet lilac fur
against it to let me know
I was no longer an untouchable.
Blade
Birch logs lean against a bearing
wall unattached
to any story I can see. I live local
except when my fears go
express. I would roll my eyes at the one train
town except I would do it
all wrong. The rolling. Never could
raise one brow unhitched
from its mate. That tongue curling trick
goes unnoticed—a genetic disposition
toward depression and intensity
without regard for subject
or consequences. No one left
to blame—just a single obsidian
countenance to spill
onto this blanched nature.
Plenum
She hates me. I don’t know why
I told her lover the only thing
he would get from her
is an STD. There’s more
to this story. Don’t tell. Just do it
behind the bridal shop. She could
dance, I could play
ukulele, her lover wrestled
everyone down. She accused me
of stealing her minutes. Find me
relief from this pressure
to time share before it’s too late.
She’ll Do Better
With this table flush
against the peach
wall. Words and precious
residue won’t spill. Salvage
everything save time. Nothing
but it will do. Wobbles is a copout
term. Tabula rasa even worse. Clutter
corrects itself
while she works. Evening retrieval
would secure her—sustain us best.
Pocket Dial It In
What’s to become
of the Carnegie—its proud
welcome in columns and fire
places, not flexible
enough to withstand e-books’
mid-morning LED yawn. Even question
marks lose ground as text dispels
subtext contorts context contrives
textile streams this side
of the muddy—I’m gone.
Am arrivals in line with departures
without delay 80% of the time.
Thick Skin on Back Order
Egg-sized but not shaped
hail knocks a fright against the brick
façade. Almost a century standing,
the building won’t fall down
in this maelstrom. The cat yowls
and races across the small-spanned
apartment (rectangle not railroad) before tornado
sirens begin to howl. He knows.
Windows open or closed, ricochet bent or pressure
cooked, twister real or exaggerated—this shelter for survival
may not withstand submission’s ache.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 