She can count
to infinity, or
as long as she lives
to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches
in the leg
of a wooden desk—
here’s where
it gets locked
in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs
of relief
when another one clicks.
Each poem, drunk, diary
entry. Each smoke, vitamin,
obsession. Each song
lyric, verbal tick, chapter
read. Each piece
of chocolate, mile
walked, resentment nursed.
I am each reprieve.
Yarn taggers and their measured
screams along the overpass
wake me before dawn. Or it’s the siren
again. Leftover fireworks, a dumpster diver
slams the lid, not gun
shots. I just imagine the drama
unfolding in a half-spun, sticky
dream. Fences maybe, definitely not brick
walls. Where are the vocal chords, where
does the air get through? No
the end. What’s next? Someone high
on bath salts. What a way to go.
This addiction to nothing is not
the same as an addiction
to air. Living off
coffee and apples
without sleep or shade
is another one. Close
the mouth for good. Lockjaw love
won’t sustain me—nor will you.
To identify where
it all went wrong, when
isolation became a drug
as potent as anything
ingested, when ingesting
became impossible
is
to pretend to be
some kind of god
with flame-retardant wings.
They’re breaking through.
It feels early. I feel late
to wake to the songs
everyone else hums.
I am overripe
to the ones I replay
because addiction is nothing
if not relentless
repetition. Will the lyric
alter slightly with this listening
to make it all about me?
If I can recover
from the need to be
your you, perhaps you
will relent—give one
up for me.
Sailboats on ice, lake ghosts
cut a V-shaped point
of view. Old boat works to come
down. Or could be collapsible
corrugated metal to be
reassembled further along
shore. Not sure about apparitions,
she knows addiction
costs. Can’t be repurposed. No matter
how many times he drew life from the lake,
it won’t help him now.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 