That these ruled
lines offend
her is a symptom,
hers, of obsession.
She needs to draw
stick figures
unencumbered by wires
and shortest distances, tight
ropes and narrative’s longhand
script. She knows
they’ll walk out
on clouds of snow-
covered mystery, but
at least she can pretend
she set them free.
Hand over palm of other hand,
no one sits
like this anymore. But I
do it because I
want to invoke a god
to this dance
I watch, wondering if
it’s being done right. Because I
need a divine
answer to this mortal question:
Is it ever done right?
I wonder what happens if
my heart stops racing
long enough. There’s a girl
who was born yesterday—
and hers is beating just right.
A pause in yellow.
She considers turmeric
gold, strands of hair
silver, the burden of living
is always bronze. She considers it
a relief
to put change on the table
and walk on.
Better to call it rose, not
pink. Better to leave off
the accent. Those bricks don’t
match. The lining up
gets lost. Everything has a seam
in it. I’m not
blushing anymore—there’s mine.
First Definition: Compensation paid for saving a ship or its cargo from the perils of the sea, or for the lives and property rescued in a wreck.
I promised my younger self
(or is it my younger self
who promised me) I would forget
you. I would not record
the scent of your hair
close shaven on your neck and scalp.
I would not try to score
the boom of your voice
into my soundtrack loop for sleeping.
I would not wait
for you on the pier
where everyone waits
for their next drink,
or receipt for the next purchase
in any of those too numerous chain boutiques.
I promised everyone but myself (at any age)
I would never speak your name out loud, or whisper it
into the hollows
of trees or dead
birds’ eyes. I keep
my mouth shut. But I can’t resist
what I see
on the sidewalk—never to know how the black
bird ended up in that position. Into its mystery, I press
the harsh consonant and arrogant single
syllable of your name—let it stick, let it stick.
awakens her to stories she wishes
she didn’t have to tell, she wishes
she could tell
apart from nightmares she rarely remembers. So afraid
of fire, she wouldn’t light a match
till the pyromania years were long
done, till the Bunsen burner’s true blue
flame was out of her life
for good. She believes there is no such thing
as friendly fire. In 1970, a spectacular one burned
the Caryl School to the ground. A stubborn, wind-whipped blaze
six town fire departments couldn’t slay. Falling slate, flying
glass, then the roof caved in. That same year,
she found floral ceramic remains
scarring a sand lot with vacancy
when she stood on the footprint of a stranger’s house
of ash a half mile up the shoreline
from her grandparents’ cottage
before the land bends
over itself toward East Chop light.
It took years for her to bury
the terror that fires are contagious,
that they will eventually reach the porch,
that they will erase
the place where she lived
more consistently than any other
till she turned 12. At 26, before she began
to smoke, she was smoked out
of another home when roofers torched
a cardinal’s nest wedged in a gutter.
Odds are most people have a fire
story to tell. These are hers. Those,
her father for one, who saw
the towers come scorching
down carry
the weight of surviving
wherever they choose
to live. She can’t help
but become impatient, wanting
to sing. And this is how she becomes her own siren—
persistent and contagious,
calling to reclaim
a loss she didn’t know
she had to lose:
My father, my city, rescue them, rescue this,
whether or not I know what it is
that is mine, this is mine.
A bluff that doesn’t overlook
water, pot holes sink
into view overnight.
When I calculate distance
too literally, I begin
to see only a stranger
who grasps at straight lines,
begin to believe in
only their edges.
I’m not starting, not
stopping, merely counter-balancing
with these dollar coins
that perform revelry
in my pocket without a conductor.
An old fireplace mantle painted emergency
orange. Maps folded wrong
on purpose into paper
airplanes—a fleet of them landed
between the stems
of a candelabra. One green leaf
on a plate on a wooden floor beside a floor
lamp. Clouds stenciled on the ceiling. A tiny red
TV from the late 60s on the mantle
painted emergency
orange. And repeat.
To E.B. White
Rain on Park Avenue
South, I walk the boulevard
strip looking for a break.
Let me in, let me cross,
let me be
in New York strolling without
longing for a face
I’ve never seen. Umbrellas
collide into one another
over sidewalks washed off
as an Impressionist painting blurry
as the view I had
before glasses, before
knew there was no cure
for this thirst. Let me in,
let me cross, let me be
here—this city, here is
New York, compressing,
stressing, confessing to
all life this small island still.
She keeps counting without remembering
what she’s counting.
Looking at her cell phone, is it
time? Station after station, I count too.
And I get tired, but I know
I must keep going—bricks in phased crumble,
seconds waiting for a light
to change before I can walk again.
Yes, I count too,
beside her on the train
rolling away—a rhythm
for both of us in our strangeness.
The numbers will be the last
to go—my inheritance—cities, square
feet, jobs, books, CD’s, mothers, lovers, little
deaths. We are nothing
to one another but accidental
companions on the way
to an airport—I despise this
journey where I don’t get to stay
on till the end:
Pennsylvania Station, New York City.
No, I’m getting off
at Newark International to return
to snow in May. What about her? I wonder
what she’s counting on
at the other end.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 