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.
Tights Weather
“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.”
Cause Why
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.
Bridge
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.
This Tongue Touches the Fruit Not the Computer
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.
Look, in the Sky
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.
Ghosting
I forget
to say good-bye
to the bridge
before I cross it.
My silence
becomes the silence
in a field after a cattail fire
finally dies out.
Your eyes
tell me
to do it.
I trade rough
air for rough
water and swim
where I used to drown
before you
and those dangerous eyes.
I erase the horizon
with a cloth
covered in blood—
could be a fermented
raspberry smoothie
that exploded
in my hand.
I spit out
the wine
before it spits
out me.
Just in time
to hear the last minute
of “Night Fever,”
I want to walk one more block
beneath an elevated subway line
in a white dress
and platform shoes.
I want to dance alone
to the end
of a pier you and I saw
but were too afraid
to approach.
I won’t turn my back
on the waterfront,
or pretend
to be a contender.
What are we going to do
when Robert DeNiro is gone,
when the children have never heard of
Greta Garbo or Marlon Brando?
What’s that trick
when the artist draws
an entire world on a stucco wall
without lifting his brush?
Why is it a crime
to run a sentence
the full length of the sky,
but not a pencil line?
Color forgives
the wave its naked trespasses
in the dark.
The wide black vinyl belt
slips down too far now—
I hold my breath
against the eye doctor’s orders.
Because I could never ghost
anyone, especially you, or him, or him,
even if you invented the method,
used it on me more than once.
I don’t know what to say
about stalkers except
I hope they all get lockjaw
and spend eternity
in the Rust Belt.
My neck hurts
not from looking in both directions,
but from spinning my head
360 degrees like a good spinster.
Or solo musician who unscrews his,
places it in the passenger seat
so he has someone to talk to
on the lonely road.
It isn’t really funny,
but we laugh anyway
because he has those crazed eyes
and desire to see modern dance moves
in the elbow
of the man who stands
behind me.
All the widowed words
hesitate to walk into a bar.
No one wants to go first,
to be so alone again.
Greta Garbo would have
pushed one
inside the swinging door
just to watch the expression
it makes before falling
into place.
I might change my name
to tetanus
to honor all those ghosts,
I mean stalkers.
I mean who’s to say
it won’t end tomorrow,
or tonight, if the sky clears.
I believe every day
should be a Wednesday
night in the Flats.
When I find no stage
or maligned river,
I go searching for them
inside my wrecked heart.
He saw the scar you left,
licked it before I bit his cheek.
We laughed till the sun rose
in another Rust Belt city.
Ruined for this life, I hear
a solitude whisper to me
in an afterhours glow.
I lie in the middle
of an empty, one-way street
I love beyond reason
without a fear.
He Can Scream
louder than a bagpipe drone
she won’t hear him
where she is
she’s not dead
just to him
he can’t keep it up
all night
he’s hoarse
his throat and jaw
and back ache
it’s too hot
and hollow
in the bedroom
he tries to sleep
on the couch
is a chaise
is too short
would be
even for her
if she were here
he has nightmares
when he finally falls
into a fitful one
gets a rash on his forearm
from the heat
she doesn’t hear him
he stops caring
when ghost became a verb
The Myth of Being Double-Jointed
“To love is to be a fish.
My boat wallows in the sea.
You who are free,
rescue the dead.”
—David Ignatow (“Rescue the Dead”)
to find a secret hollow
in an open field
to be
so fermented
to listen only
to the lowest ones
to harbor and worry
memories
to wear them out
to give an imaginary friend
the silent treatment
a muse a leave of absence
a guardian angel permission
to tweet what’s seen
when you lock the door at night
to release your grip
on the balcony rail
to choose to live nowhere
near the scene
of your last kiss
with anyone not just him
to believe in
marionette strings
more than a mannequin pose
is to be
the rescuer
and the rescued
Retreatable
When the breeze begins
to burn and fire pit flames
grow too high and hot,
she stands close by.
It’s when things cool down,
she sees her error.
Alone in the yard,
she slowly steps
backward—the direction
she knows best.
It pains her
not to run.
Everything silent, still
under a slate sky,
she removes herself
with an eye on a worn life
preserver with wings
propped against a fence.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 