A chalkboard to record the names
of childhood heroes. It would be better
if they could rhyme. It would be better
if they could be segregated
from the ones accumulated
later in life. No relatives. No future
lovers. No dead people—although
there’s one rule I might choose to break
over the sound of that ceaseless clapping.
Footbridges are her chalkboard.
She erases the night
with her tongue. No spitting
allowed. If she could write
like you used to
speak, she’d drop
all R’s
(reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic)
to make room for one long
queue that snakes
along those unmarred banks.
But she just can’t do it.
Let’s agree to disagree
about this anger
I don’t feel. Only
those numbers in your handwriting
erased from a chalkboard
30 years ago know
how we were supposed to add up
or not. A psychology
of emotions cannot qualify
the spirit in the slate,
a song over the dugout,
stanzas hidden in the threshold
we passed through
so many times
without thinking to pause
long enough to honor the reveal.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 