Upside down hurricane
lamps hang
from a ceiling’s exposed
bones in a place
called SPACE. Drapes
for walls, everyone can see
what the cooks are doing
with the night.
There’s nowhere
in this space
to hide. And yet
the singer won’t appear
till it’s time.
To be lost inside the eye
of a virus, to shiver
from the sensation
that this condition is
permanent, to forget
what was so crucial
to say to you last night
is to be a human dropping
to her knees
to cushion the crash.
this day? It will not wake up
more than a dull white
of clouds and snow—an ash
missing a few waves. Must make
do with light tricks
weeks before winter. Find a way
to harness the energy
it will take to break
open the hours
to unclutter fear
from the walk.
To shout “my socks
are wet” inside a crowded church
before it all begins
is to believe
in the beauty of echoes
as they become prayer.
after the drug
of eating dirt has splayed me
unconscious, I will resume
my search to unearth
my own history. And rub
stiffness from my hands—
the grip’s the worst. The alcoholic
tradition is not the only one
to be found. Will dig more.
Not everything that doesn’t get built
dies, not everything built lives.
Better with a wrench
than a hammer, she
would rather loosen
those four legs to collapse
old surfaces than tighten a grip
into an ache. This overreach
for words pounds down.
I won’t be the one
who left her purple
gloves on the counter, who cut off
the blind man in limbo
between buildings. Will be
the one looking
for a way around
Holidazzle Parade crowds. I will
return to street level
next time I see
my way home before dark.
—sounds female—who
commands my attention
the way the dead
vines outside my window attract
hearty northern birds
and squirrels to the rummage,
demand that my indoor cat take
his instinctive position as hunter?
A stillness so loud
it wakes the early winter
in me to watch. Who?
Bent spoons on display, the Ohio
down the hill. What is this
warmer place
that is a stranger to me,
that harbors the soul
of someone so familiar—
now gone? This is
where I am now.
How to wash a wall
clean escapes me. The stained
yellow frame
of life happened
has marked where the black
and white Flat Iron
Building photo hung
in elongation. Always a phallic
comment, but that’s not it. And
now I want to hang you—
your black, white, and gray
evocation of guitar and train—
your one fast move or I’m gone
tour memorabilia on that spot. But
you won’t fit. A black line
from the edge
of a chest of drawers,
a tiny crack
in the new frame
I’ve bought to hold you in.
A collection of flaws—not a god in sight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 