It is by abandonment
I come to this place
of landing, this state
of delivered from evil
or angels mind. Through clouds,
descent,
the wing behind me, The City
below,
a capitalization
I won’t deny. The loss
of symmetry is
only part of the story.
Months go by, plans
straightened and stacked
against a retaining
wall. One strong June blast
of warm air, and she’s off
her stoop, she’s scrambling
to recollect. The reshuffle
comes out as red as
an improvised sunset
backing off a river.
A cool-down precedes another
runaway from the resurfacing
of every tiny ache and sting
she’s known—by choice
or not. Good
sleeping weather, she hopes
to leave unwelcome
reverberation on her pillow,
hopes to be able to say
what she means to the aerial view
she’ll wave away
as the plane takes her
to a reunion with other scraps
she left behind
by choice. It’s a risk—that word
and its closest relations.
Watching the time drag
itself through the driest
dirt, she wants to kneel
into it and scoop
handfuls into her gaping
mouth, wants to swallow expectations
whole. Then spit them out.
She knows she can’t
have it both ways.
Would she know
balance if
it knocked her off
this pedestrian bridge
she stands on? Closed
for repairs starting tomorrow,
it could be
another unreliable witness.
Total exposure before a second
full moon passes over
the sky to our right is my wrong
impulse—the one I don’t have
the courage to plunge into darkness.
I still can’t explain why
a morning ghost
moon makes me want
to believe in mystery’s propulsion
over city lights.
At the corner of Thomas
and Upton—a crossing that wasn’t
supposed to happen—she walks under the right canopy
of trees. A layer of fear shed, it leaves
no mark on the sidewalk.
Some spills are meant to remain
invisible to everything but the slightest breeze.
A commotion of geese flaps across
this paved way to go in circles
through my front yard I share
with anyone willing to show up. My struggle
to take off is my refusal
to drop the weight of every moment
but this one. This one
could be my soar. Could.
To be remembered for this. She’ll accept the evaporation
of all other details in buckling concrete.
Tree roots need somewhere to go. The downturn
confused with a bow arched toward rooftop wild
flowers—it’s taken
a lifetime to learn to let these curves
cradle what they may.
Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 