She never takes room—a spillover
lover from his last book
of bed times
and sleeping porches
in a town so much
warmer than here. Where
he would say fuck out
loud, she would be a collapsed
chorus of giggles:
Who is this
who makes me fall
down so easily into
spasms without withdrawal,
not even from a drop
of espresso
that woman splattered
on her way out the door? But
he sings it instead, and that
just makes her stand steady for more.
Frost on the empty
bottle in a dying
flower
bed, I don’t know what to make
of this month’s crisp cache.
A locked black metal trunk affixed
to a downtown
bus shelter’s glass
backing holds those same
secrets—no public access, and I’m not
ready to go so private without
you, crawling along, ready
to wrap my swollen feet
in your final scroll.
A gloat and a gleam
you can’t see through
an old phone mouth
piece. Our imagination collective
could be oval shaped
and who would know. Come
sit beside me in this
potted plant meltdown
we’ve created without
the use of virtual
eyes or ears. Our strut
could be next up.
“There’s the present moment fraught with tangled woods.”
—Jack Kerouac, from Big Sur
The doctor who’s not really
a doctor
yet asks her to find her
safe place with eyes closed, to lie
on her back, see
nothing but that brown orange
noise of inner eye
lids till it comes
into focus—the edge
of a field blurred into a pine forest so ripe
with needle
bed mint sweetness.
All kisses before it got so complicated
and the sun peeking through just
to wave hello
and see you later when you get up
from your daydream—
I mean hers.
It was her death to be
so awake before all of you without
a cleared path
to escape along. It is about
feet first, it turns out.
Overheard. I don’t need a sitting
room, I need
a universal
room where you can go
to burn
off surprise. And kindling
would be so because
these are ginkgo leaves
and this is October
and that is snow.
Mixed bouquets from a private garden sold
at a farmer’s market stall
Thursdays on the mall—one secured
with elastic and string
to the bridge’s southeast rail
and a note. I can’t make
out any words
save you and peace. His name still
withheld. It’s not
the impact
on water through air once
met metal
ledge, but the force
of those falls against
sad flesh crushing bone.
She collects all the fear
she has gathered for 21 years,
puts it in a jar and seals it tight,
drops the jar into
the drink. Without it,
her days begin to count.
I wish I liked the taste
of pomegranate seeds
in a dish, would become
an object of seasonal fertility,
object of someone’s desire,
if I could only dismiss
the sour burning
on my tongue.
I cannot. He kisses me—
my lips still stinging
from the pulp—full
on the mouth. I wish
I could hold onto
the taste, know it
pleases and frightens
all the senses,
know it signals
a message within:
This is going to be harder than you think, this acquiring
a resistance to his taste.
Cockroaches of the sea
with a sting, jellyfish swarm
near our shore
and ones in Spain, Australia, Japan.
If it really is survival
of the fittest and the bees keep dying
inland, I need to fall
in love with a faceless
marauder, need to embrace
a new kind of welt the way I used to embrace
you and your luxurious, endangered
kisses on the rock
studded beach, now closed
for the rest of the summer. First, yellow
flags for caution,
then red to say no
to swimming in the rip current, and now this blue.
They are invisible
till it’s too late. Should I have let you
bite me
the way you asked? Why
didn’t you just do it without waiting for permission? Why
didn’t we ignore the red flags,
let the pull and drag
determine our next move? You weren’t
a very good swimmer. This is why I must
learn how to love all over again.
You were better
with bees in the field, protected
by a wooded hillside of Pine and Lady Slippers.
She was just a smoking pool
that night as any other. She belonged
to the faceless generation
till
she found hers
on the back of an envelope
addressed to no one.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 