Turns out musicians
are mortals—shouldn’t be
a surprise. All those young
martyrs. But still it is.
You’re the latest
demonstrator.
You left behind
one of the best. And because
I, too, am
mortal and
a thief, I can’t resist:
“I can’t get a license
to drive in my car. But
I don’t really need it,
if I’m a big star.”
Step outside
the city
on a clear night.
Note: Stolen lyric from “O My Soul,” by Alex Chilton, from the album Radio City.
I don’t believe in martyrs,
don’t always believe
my eyes. It’s the primary colors.
They endanger me
with their solid, waiverless
stairs to nowhere better
in black and white. Dirty
snow or marble, maybe
we did meet once before
this day that tips
toward the melt. What if
we were lovers? What
does that make us
now that the boisterous
hues of another summer
have bled away
their urgency? I don’t need
to teach you the difference
between complementary
and complimentary. “How lovely
you look beside me
on this wheel—that cochineal becomes you,
even against his brown,” the yellow says
to the red. I might start
to believe in plastic orange
picks scattered in the street.
And I might pick one up for you
and who you were before.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 