Wait for me inside
the vestibule
of my inner ear.
You’ll make me dizzy.
I don’t mind.
It’s not you.
It’s that damn dimple.
The one that appears
on your left cheek
when you give me
that crooked smile.
I thought it signaled
your love.
Peel off
the red
raincoat. Turn
it inside out.
We all make each other
sick some
of the time
remaining in
the glass.
Nausea dissipates
when I walk it off.
When I snap
my fingers and forget
to hold my breath.
Hit by a wake
of rainwater
a morning bus makes
as it barrels through
every puddle. Hit
by a gray thought—
losers, only losers. Hit
by a Dumptruck
song she hasn’t heard
in years. The Haunt.
Hit by all the names
she never remembers,
she hits back. The sound
of vulcanized rubber
on wet pavement
becomes her
secret overture.
As the train crosses over,
it stuns me again to be living
so close to the northern end
of this multithreaded river.
Entrenched beneath bluffs,
it’s just waiting
to have its hidden whitewater
rapids restored.
I would give away
every page of misguided poetry
I’ve written
to be so dignified.
To know exactly when
to make an exit.
Then it hits me—
a paddleboat slamming
against a dock. I tally
up all the moves
and miles logged
in rows of unlocked journals
and see
I’m the one
who has done the leaving.
Ghosted myself
as I seek
another body
of/or water
to inhabit.
She defrosts
her freezer
in the middle
of every third
lunar cycle. Hears
a man
at another table
mention shell game.
All she wants
to find beneath
is a trail in the sand
the original
dweller left
behind. Pretends
she’s just fine
through the other
two cycles
when inside
bearing walls
close in.
Others begin
to sway. Unstabilized
bookcases shake
loose thin books.
Poems appear
to leap
to their demise.
Words scatter.
Some flee
under door
sweeps. Others
slice window screens
to escape. As evening
creeps in sooner, longer
toward the autumnal
equinox, she longs
for the bravado
of no regrets
beneath a thunder moon.
Living dolls will dance
with trompe l’oeil sculptures
in a parallel universe.
Here, we lock stares,
want to know what’s real,
what time it is.
“This strange thing must have crept
Right out of hell.”
—Charles Simic (from “Fork”)
One year ago today—
the last concert in Midway Stadium
before the wrecking ball.
Never mind that.
The first one drowns
in a swimming pool in Florida.
Last night, I see the last one
still checking out guitars
when not slinging his own.
And there were Tommys
playing all over town.
Never mind any of that.
Exactly, why not a fork?
How best to eat a cherry?
While they’re ripping up
the whole garden,
may as well add
an entire place setting.
A giant comes to dinner.
Send him into the yard.
So many one liners
to map out
those days and nights
in September
when it’s still summer
and everything cries out fall,
or never mind. My ears
ring the morning after.
Yes, Mr. Simic, my fist
remains “bald, beakless, and blind.”
The wind dies.
Sails go slack.
Standing water
overripens in a fountain.
Knots in her throat loosen.
Her heart goes numb.
She can hear music playing
on a radio.
The words to the song
don’t register.
Afternoon sun
doesn’t warm her legs.
She looks up where a swirl
of marbleized clouds
cannot hide the blue.
September blue.
Another September 11th sky
stained with memory and silence.
For MJN crossing beneath,
for NYC connecting across,
for The Brooklyn Bridge rescue working destiny
Advance your vantage
point, collapse
your facade of steel,
your gutted concrete floor.
Collide your bridge maker
with mine, collage your hand over mouth
with my eyes shut,
vocal chords in strangulation—
a scream
a void
to coalesce to convalesce
on one promenade
of material unidentifiable yet.
Coordinate the crossing—
bare feet
dust
ash caked faces
no veil could protect,
suits meaningless, ties undone
till they become arms swaying.
A human chain
of events. A human
behavior changing—
never
no way
when
now.
They designed bridges
to be passageways.
Make them good
to get no further
than this. It is still where it has been,
the destination stands
between these pedestrian elevating towers
still here.
Cut into irregular wedges,
the first McIntosh
of the season
crunches just right,
tastes perfect
as the Brooklyn Bridge
subway station logo
with its two B’s
backing into each other
Janus-faced. The journey
goes both ways:
Manhattan to Brooklyn,
Brooklyn to Manhattan.
This first apple
could be my last.
How many people die
on their birthdays—
a question backs into an exclamation.
It’s Tinker Bell, clutching
her one feeling
at a time. No,
it’s a trained hummingbird.
No, my guardian angel or
the street genius.
It’s a selfie drone
that hovers overhead
to protect or endanger
my airspace—
depending on mood
and time of day.
When I close my eyes,
I see it could be
a Mellotron or a real Dobro
that breaks my heart.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 