you are my people
in this room
strangers all of you
relief in our eyes
in this room
for an hour
egos to be checked
at the door
name tags break
anonymity our
introductions don’t
no one’s reading them
in this room
cocktail parties
get going in the ones
on either side
we all have one of two
(or both) last names
beginning with “a”
our noms de bouteille
Oh, the stress
of being on display,
of going
to the mall
and having to stay
there. Where? Of
America. Oh,
the survival stories
to tell. If
we do that sort
of thing. Tanked. Touch
me. I’m not ready
to be touched.
Deep beneath rhythm’s
crust, a bubble of sound
bursts open. A slow seep
to the surface then a widening
slick spreads across the lake.
Without a bridge,
the song finds its own
shape—becomes
its own Helicon mystery.
He hides his words
inside a Mason jar. Thinks
no one will see him
peel them off
his tongue with sugar-tongs,
slip them in, screw it
shut. Nothing to do
with lisps, though he had one.
Outgrew it the way
he outgrows you
and your sea glass
smooth voice. No air
in or out. His own breathing
drained of sound
the way an alarm
clock inside
a sealed bell jar
won’t wake you up.
Sitting in a roadside cafe waiting
for the other
shoe to drop. My older sisters
tossed their sneakers
(probably red)
out the station wagon window.
Rumor was they blamed me
when our mother found out.
I was under one. Both my sisters
are older. I don’t always achieve
economy
of words.
Usually know where
the action lies. Avoid
the passive
voice. Most of the time.
It can be heard
from the other side
of the highway. A distant sound
to be avoided
by truckers and young women
on the loose. Facts lie more often
in spring. Be careful. The other
shoe might become
a lady’s slipper.
Discovered in Earth’s mantle. What
would it take to leave
the troposphere
for the stratosphere
for the mesosphere? All the way
to the thermosphere. What
about the pauses between? What
do I really know
about my own epidermis,
dermis, hypodermis? What
if I discovered a hidden layer
in there? Would you come
looking for me there?
Frozen shut for months,
a gate begins to swing. She swallows,
breathes in warming air. Time
to speak up again. Letters taste as foreign
as rusted hinges
and shallow pools
of sweet brine. So many alphabet
flavors to acquire.
I’m having your
miscarriage is the worst
song title since the one
that begins
dyslexic. Sometimes I do
the math. To torture
myself, yes, but more
to torture the memory
of a daughter (not son)
that never got constructed
to be forgotten. I carry
this bus transfer
from a Monday morning
in March with me
in my purse to be
a birthday card
to my 23-year-old child.
To be memento mori
for you and me.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 