In her red and white
checked picnic table
cloth pattern dress
and black belt
without so many adjectives, she’s not ready
to be seen
after dark. Not ready
to see a white dwarf
star or terrorist
losing control. She is
ready, however, to witness
shifts in the weather
and small adjustments
to the rock garden
behind the row house
where she used to live.
What a privilege to be
in a booth by herself. What a message
to send in a bottle
filled with air. What a color
to believe in
when the photo turns
out dark. What eyes
to feel upon her. What a shock
to see boxers on a large screen
TV behind the bar. What
a relief not to be teetering
on the edge
of a wooden floor. What a sound
her heart makes
when she recognizes how long
it’s been since she needed
to identify the name of a cocktail—ingredients
weighing her down
cellar steps to irrelevance.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 