Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm
so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection
sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still
she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road
death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing
but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.
Your secret
is safe
with me. You
are not
safe with more
secrets.
It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
Light pollution
enhances her cravings
for the perfect
constellation, for an evening
spent outdoors
without fear. Each wave
lengthens or shrinks
to spell out
new acts of bravery
in a host of colors
beginning with red,
ending up yellow
just before it turns
green. Snow piled
on a skylight won’t last.
Fear ghosts,
god, graffiti, guardian
angels, and
home.
Tonight
Noguchi saves
all of us from those fears
we nourish in our souls before
morning.
This spill onto pavers
beneath the bridge beside the river
is her reminder—there are other things
worth fearing
more than an errant fish
hook, a fast woman walking
and expecting past you, even this
sting on scraped knee and toe.
Forgetting how to laugh would be one worthy.
Those fears are no
shows. Disappointment comes
in all shades of red
strained through gray. A night free
of summer’s oppression. Without
sweat, she swears
she can differentiate
between a music
town and one impurely industry.
Another city, another black
bird soars over pedestrian
heads. I have one. The least
unease matures into full-on anxiety
about what clouds
won’t hold. I’m not afraid
to fly but do fear those
with the will
to—agents flying, flew, have flown.
Get any closer to the mouth
piece could kill you. The bitch
in me steps outside
the invisible line I draw
each morning. I wasn’t paying
attention. Never thought I could
turn anything out. But fear
and pride conspire to plot
a demise—not mine. Not a suicide
left in the garden.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 