The longest
day of the year collapses
into darkness
hours too early. Another bout
of extreme
weather rumbles
through—tears trees
from their roots
like a cat
shedding for summer. Power
lost, flash
flooding drowns
the whimsy
of solstice
ceremonies. Dances
over the river
cannot stop it
from spilling over too far.
Seeing the city
park dandelion
fountain fanning
and splaying
water again,
I remember
not all death
is permanent.
Fuel leaks out
all over the tarmac
beneath the left wing.
Sandbags. Fire trucks.
Another night
in Austin. Back home
it’s still snowing.
Grace. A chess game indoors
could have been outside in
spring snow if it was
a bigger place
with more pocket parks. But here
everything stays
insulated. A punk jabbing
at the inside mechanisms
of my mind. In a dream,
the old New York employer
has all but shutdown. An empire
of books gets streamlined. Everyone
has moved
on. Even those who haven’t
when I wake will be gone.
Still bare from a long winter, my favorite
tree has grown
crazier than I remember. One wildly long branch
reaches across the street
to shake hands with its fellow elder
on the block. Just one
south of the CC Club. I never enter
that darkness anymore. Someone leaves
a black teapot on top
of a recycle bin—yes or no? Do it.
Knock it in. Everything
deserves a second chance.
Is this rain, or sleet, or miniature
hail—this life becomes
a wintry mix. No plot, no narrative, this is
continuous till
it ends. But it doesn’t stop
there. She slips on a Howard Ben Tré
sidewalk glass
eye and falls. Waiting
for a bruise to form
on her upper right
thigh, she seeks
comfort in the purchase
of a sky
blue button-down shirt.
On her way home, she walks slowly
around the offending
eye. Accumulation answers
the question no one really asked.
A smart phone huddle
awakens that skyway
bridge between the bank
and liquor store. Disorientation
comes from peering
at street level. Wine
tasting is on
another night.
“Take a break
from Face
Book to face
the forgotten beauty
of a real book.”
Where did I
read that?
Water
pressure becomes
the source of happiness
as a broken pipe turns streets to
rivers.
To calculate the life
expectancy of a book
case, to remember terracotta
dreams, to believe
in old-fashioned raindrops,
to imagine pianos
appearing on parade
in other cities, to be
proud not to have gotten
a tattoo in this town
after all
is to be making it
up as I go along.
Inside the most exquisite
mausoleum ever built
this side
of the Mississippi,
a door to the sunken
garden slams shut
without help
from human or wind.
As I admire the rose
onyx floor with my fingertips
and follow the wedge
of light to its source
(perfectly angled skylight)
above, I wonder if
ghosts monitor
both descents and ascents.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 