A bent sweeper
handle distills moments
to pause for moon
spotting. Or, becomes his favorite
chin-up bar when she moves
closer, positions her mouth
mere inches from his, insists
on cleaning
beneath his bare
soles. The pun rolls under
the couch where neither
can reach it. Just too
foggy tonight.
Would he rather be
the storyteller or
a story told
with nails? A hammer or
a sickle threshing prairie
grass on a roof
overlooking a bridge
where lost
stories go to–
to do what? To leap
over faith toward a longer
narrative, or to jump
into an abrupt ending, or
to cross with others
to the other side
of a river
that never gets named. Then what?
It’s too late
to become a lyric
gesture, sound turned
down low.
A blue ink stain
beneath the nail of the middle
finger is residue
from another conversation
he had
with himself. Or some undressed
rehearsal he wrote
his way out of. A hidden trap
door in the wood floor
a woman used once
to escape his
implacable hunger. Today
it’s purple and he’s careful
to keep the tip on point. His lefty
slur asks:
Do you move in a circle, or swim
in your own lane
when you breathe bilaterally?
Someone says snow.
It won’t. I won’t
let this happen–
this death
to birds that don’t
fly through glass. I used to
say I love water
skiing. Have only done it
twice. A lake
in Ohio. Not the big one.
It’s not that I can’t breathe
bilaterally. I just haven’t tried
in years. Superior, Michigan,
Huron, Erie, Ontario. There,
I said them fast
enough almost to forget
there’s no salt
on my lips.
Her nerves wrap around a mystery
she doesn’t need to solve
till they become entrapped. Nothing
gets solved. May as well make
like an archaic torso
of a god—lamp lit—
and change your life.
Everyone is a thief
in the dark after hours.
Cradled between merry-go-round
and satellite,
the first words
he would say to her
were an insult
wrapped inside
an error becomes erotic
presumption blanketed
with snotty affection.
Is it a deep blue
sleeveless floral button-down baby
doll dress
with a collar, or
a maternity
jumper? Didn’t your mother
teach you
it isn’t
polite to ask
if a woman is
knocked-up? To her face?
As she dances? To your music?
Damn, boy! Is it mine? Just you wait and see.
Now I want to tell you something
about what? I don’t know
how to speak in tongues. I try
to be honest. But the color
blue comes out first. What the hell
ain’t it about? Everything
worshipped—including stuffed monkeys—
leads to silence or ink drawings of stolen crutches.
The window
seat is the aisle
seat. It’s too damn small. Claustrophobia
can be triggered
at any moment. Am I
the only one
who heard you
expose that moment
a young woman jumps
off
a moving
merry-go-round
to change her life? An island known
for brass rings. But now it’s the back
of a larger jet, not
a bus. And the word
turbulence is a curse. Gravel
roads and potholes
in the sky over
Ohio and Wisconsin. No,
it must be the Great
Lakes. Each
and every one. And rivers
that flow too slowly
or not at all. You belted out
the question:
“Is it Mine?” There was nothing
there to be yours
yet. When there was,
you didn’t want it.
(Did I?) And then
it was gone. Name it. Go
ahead. Name.
It. I
dare you. And
I will not offer
suggestions. And
once named, you can
forget it—me. Yeah,
thought so. Descending
over the Mississippi, a landing
so smooth.
No matter how many transfers
I pluck off
the ground, she will never
kiss me
on the bus
again. Valid
for 2 ½ hours. Time’s
up. Dirt on the magnetic
strip. Invalid
for life. How lame
that I am still limping
after all these years. Again,
I forget
who she is—Daffodil
or some lesser lily
of the field. Face validity
will do. Fingerprints
everywhere. I do know she’s no longer
made of glass.
I’m going to start
wearing a money
belt to pretend
I’m traveling
in a foreign
country. Wide enough
to hold
a passport
and a spleen
in case mine needs
to be removed.
I would keep it
so I could still vent.
No one will accuse me
of being passive
aggressive. Where am I
going tonight?
Saint Paul. You never know.
Will have to cross
the Mississippi, you know.
Maybe, you don’t.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 