If I’m going to talk
about you, I better cut
every other word
in half to see if
the reflection of your cable stays
in the river floats, or
disintegrates
under scrutiny
of a thousand pairs
of headlight eyes.
Poetry
The Metronome
is a toy
to her—a triangular wooden box
with a secret hidden
behind a panel
her mother keeps
her heart beating to.
She wants to know
the secret but doesn’t want to learn
it wrong. So she watches
her mother count
to herself as her fingers
and feet
spell out the contents
of the secret
on piano keys,
organ stops and pedals.
She will develop a habit
of watching metronomers, believing them
to be minor deities (sometimes even full-fledged gods).
Like a good daughter, she stands in front, giving away all
of her attention.
She dances with rhythmic abandon
to pull down a god
or two. Her mother would say she has lost
her balance along the way. And when her mother disowns her,
she won’t realize it
till she chooses to be the meter ticking,
swinging out her own story.
Nude
Nude Imagine a pocket door of glass
block. Imagine
an etching of a figure leaning
against an ash tree upon that sand
recycled curtain, a drain of cold
water cascading
around her limbs. It is
June. It is raining. It is
midnight. There is no moon,
nothing to place an image upon.
It is nude.
My Imaginary Music
How I would play the future.
I don’t know how, I would say,
before opening the piano lid
to stare at all that black and white in fear.
Then I would find middle C and forget
to stop for meals or sleep.
How I would play happiness.
An acoustic guitar perfectly strapped
across my shoulder and the pick
to go with it. Without thinking,
I would know where to put my fingers, would
know all the chords.
How I would play terror.
A full orchestra mid prelude
and all the lights go out.
How I would play childhood.
My grandmother’s garden and me,
with my red-painted, wooden toy
barrel organ, grinding out a serenade
to the lilacs, lilies, myrtle
in between, to the tune
of “The Sidewalks of New York.”
How I would play you.
East Side, West Side, all around
the town, I sing a cappella
waiting for the lights to go out
so I can find you again,
serenading the dark with twelve strings.
Palimpsest
By any other name, old under
new over these layered spasms could be
a lover’s ancestor in throes
of it. The lover did not
inherit that passion. It could be
learned. Or unlearned. No.
I cannot go back. I can
repurpose desire into
energy to stay awake overnight
for this city’s sake. But shadow
limbs will move behind a scrim—an ache
will likely bleed through.
After Hours
It’s tension. This talk
of the temporary. No shelter—
but a stretch
to represent. I
would not live
in a tent. To go
to parties means meeting
a man who says:
“Let’s light up
the Third Avenue Bridge.”
Not burn it
down. That’s a different party
on a different night.
Because the darkness can
be so random I rarely go
out without my torch.
Marionette
Lapsing into flaps to close a cardboard box, she slips a note in afterward
the way she forgets she can dance
without strings. The tension
for the right arm varies from that of the knee. Thighs weigh more
than you might imagine. Pulled out, she emerges
naked and cut free
of nerves before the flaps fold
over each other, before everything collapses,
before she slips away without written instructions
on how to manipulate the soil
to grow freshly carved limbs.
Gigantic Perspective
Skyways run between second
floors in an irregular pattern
she forgets to decode.
But she believes she must
duck
when approaching beneath—
her pedestrian movements
can be so erratic, better
not to risk it.
Then I Will (Day 2,518: Take 2)
Take away all definite
articles overworn
and shaped to fold
as tightly as a cliché
in a cheap plastic frame. Throw
leftover scraps into a tipped
over metal ash can
before flames burn
another year’s calendar
beyond recognition. Steal
another man’s thought
after an October
snow leaves a bouquet
of unlabeled white
traces and artificial heat.
Across Times Square Is Paramount
I.
You are the axes, bowtie, pivotal moment
we all pass through to get to the other side
of our lives. This time
I’m emerging from Penn Station, heading your way
along freshly rained-on sidewalks—the tourist
thicket watered well. Your required spectaculars
advertise everything but
this love story I have left
to tell. Will he be jealous? I wish
I could tell him I cry
whenever I see his face. But I don’t. I do
when the Friday afternoon slow river rushing crowd drags me in. I am
so in love. Would he be jealous yet? I check
the Chevrolet clock. Into the transverse LED net—Broadway,
42nd Street, 7th Avenue—I become an endangered species
in an island sanctuary, practicing the art of intentional
walking. Always a little subversive on these streets. I am so
in love. Beyond you, west along 46th Street, through scaffold mist, my love is
Paramount.
II.
The hotel looks the same.
Stainless steel, concrete, a hundred shades of horizontal
gray to subvert the vertical noise outside. Rose
heads protrude from wall surfaces without newscrawlers. Fog and January humidity
get smuggled in waves through the heavy swinging lobby doors. A blue floor light
guides the small hot elevator as it rises 14 floors. The same
floor-length mirror and barley twist
rail greet me as the doors open. Room 1508—another small one,
the bathroom sink a metal funnel that drains the tear I give away
as quietly as the shift in my mouth’s shape. Down
in the Library Bar, I don’t drink
all those glasses of Shiraz. I drink black coffee for free and know better
than to wait for him to arrive. Would he be jealous yet? An emotion
he hides so well. I can only manage to say it once—in reverse. There is no story,
no plot ready for neon streaming, only enough character to walk across
the Shuffle in well-worn heels. It’s all I have to show for
you—how I learned to recognize my love of place,
over person or thing, with no jealousy left to pass through to get to the other side.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 