A giant billboard boasts
the intrinsic appeal
of Duluth in winter. A woman paces back
and forth beside a café table
as she talks on her cell. I wouldn’t
want to live in a cave
or a cell or
Duluth any time
of year. I’m always early—
overestimating the duration
of everything. I might wait
in a cave
or a cell
for a meeting with one of those blues
harp players who’s never
on time. I don’t think
I’d wait in Duluth.
Not one of your death wish missions
into another war torn land. This is mine:
a summer night dream, sweaty
without covers. The things we used to do
together—drink, run, get naked
in waterfalls, have sex, smoke years later—I don’t do
anymore. A Greek island, Southern Portugal, somewhere
in the middle
of Connecticut. The unconscious doesn’t bother
with these details. Do you want me
to break my vows? You have some of your own.
You were never really free. I might break
down inside this scene if
I could see the right water
fall after dark—no Mississippi River icon,
Niagara Falls, Icelandic wonder, rain playing blues
harp on a Cape Cod cottage roof. No.
Would need to be off
a back road near no one
and nothing left at all before I wake.
Through galvanized steel diamonds,
we exchange words. I can almost feel
your breath brush off
this skin I wear. As much as I want
that zinc and wire to dissolve
so I can touch your blues harp marred lips,
please don’t sing them to pieces.
I need you
to disappear
into the curve of your unspoken
phrases, so I can continue
to be blown away
with these tree branches breaking against night.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 