So the rain
listen to me
so light steady
switches to heavy
with thunder
I’ll listen to you
so it becomes logical
to become
waterlogged without
swimming a lap. So easy
to forget to pay
attention to whomever
we could be.
grammar
I’ve Sent the Adverbs into Exile
Packed into a cardboard box
with ly’s dangling
from gaps between
the flaps. I’m done with action
that can’t justify
itself. If an escalator squeaks,
let it squeak. If a cat scratches,
let it. If the box
gets returned to sender
because exile has no zipcode,
let it sit on the stoop
till I’m ready
to unpack it—slowly
cutting off those letters first.
Mendacity
She could sweat it
out, but it wouldn’t change
the colors, wouldn’t bring
any of them
back. Laughter
doesn’t come easily
for her. She sees
the humor
and the irony
in it all—giggles
on the inside. Does she dare
to read
the Sunday
New York Times
someone left
behind on the table
next to her. Does she dare,
does she dare, does she
dare. One more time
and it could become
a real question
with correct punctuation.
Lost in Circulation
Pronunciation stiff
from disuse. Fear cracked
and chipped from the antonym. My tone
reveals a humidity
no rain could cure. Too close
for comfort she’ll say. I won’t say a word
as I inhale her breath
from an open window.
Air-conditioning would seal
the hermit in me for good
(and for bad).
Who Is This Pedestrian
Because she hates to see questions
in writing, I invert
my queries into rhetorical
curves. Because she was told
never to use because, I defy
some Ohio law. Because
he refuses to believe
in prepositions piling up
on over themselves, I watch
language wreck itself
from the passenger window.
And I refuse to be so definite
as to be the driver. I act on a passive
tendency to walk on—don’t I?
Missing. Period.
If I were
a typo, I wouldn’t want
to be
discovered. I would hide
in the middle
paragraph
in the middle
of an incomplete
thought You might create
me, but you’ll never know
me or the impact
I might have
on what they think
of you, never mind me.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 