Most—but not all—of the stain
gets removed. A return to wrinkle free
breaths, the smell of snow melt
over concrete, rosewater spilled
on a quilt, the color red buffed
without a hint of orange. It’s not
just about ashes—to strive
for purity even now is worth the energy
it takes to dispute or hang
in willing suspension.
And sometimes we just bounce.
Do your trills go up
or down, do you believe
in urban tornadoes, ending
on an odd number? Are you defined
by your questions, or do you answer
to a straight line? I wouldn’t
want to live in a world
with only multiple choice, without
adaptation, where streets are
always plumb with rivers
that take us home.
That mannequin torso
I see inside the second floor corner
apartment window facing West 15th
is no Apollo. Has nothing
but its center shell
that won’t encase a heart to shape
and display a wool great
coat, button
down cotton shirt, knit shawl, black
choker, silk tie. From an icy street,
I study its lamplight glow after dark
and suddenly remember
I have one too. And
she hasn’t lost her head.
It’s happening again—distortion
in the sky. Not another season
in sight. The man in a neon vest drops
his shovel. A bus rolls up—
wheels on a new white blanket.
Won’t last. Disintegration
at ground level. I watch from my skyway
perch—it is warm up
inside. Which one in stupid hat and gloves
is you? I gave up the search
decades ago. Now I extinguish the light.
This is the first time
I get to see an engine
leave Fire Station #1. A one
alarmer. No more drags
and still I can’t extinguish
those flames swooning
in my head. No smoke
billows out—all in my head.
Out of nowhere the scent
from that bonfire I started
almost twenty years gets retrapped
in nostril cross hairs—stories to be retold.
Music sounds better without
the smoke. I’m the listener,
not the singer. But forgive me
if I mouth his words, even sing along,
as I walk across another skyway bridge
on my way to heightened
exhales. Hums crossing dangerously close
to humiliation—still better than
arrogantly setting
tobacco on fire again.
Didn’t see it
coming—this Zen
sadness over the leaving
you. Fear, anxiety, yes,
even anger over a smokeless
sky. Didn’t know
that last flicker would remind me
so much of him
You were not allowed
up here—that hole
in the carpet couldn’t be
a careless discard
of one of you. A pizza
delivery man exits an elevator
to one of those office towers—can I
smell it? Oregano,
tobacco, the cigarette
that man outside on the corner
was smoking was too sweet
smelling to be
one of you. Old lovers
who were never really friends. A convenience
store becomes like a liquor
depot—no further purpose.
And I can go anywhere now.
“Throw the calendar away—gonna find a jukebox of steel.”
—Jay Farrar, “Jukebox of Steel”
Don’t ask me to set a date,
to plan my release
from this worn Sisyphean trail—
uphill with no benefits. I only know
how to drop
it,
put my flame
to other things. By sudden impulse,
I hear a message transmitted
where I thought
communication was shot. God
wears new clothes.
I’ll write everything down
so I can forget
you and how you were my last
smoking one, my last
lover to take flame
so literally, the one daily
companion left to invite me
to climb those pariah stairs. It’s time
to put you in the cupboard
behind those pans I never use.
The only things left to shake
are these hands—then they’ll quit too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 