An old fireplace mantle painted emergency
orange. Maps folded wrong
on purpose into paper
airplanes—a fleet of them landed
between the stems
of a candelabra. One green leaf
on a plate on a wooden floor beside a floor
lamp. Clouds stenciled on the ceiling. A tiny red
TV from the late 60s on the mantle
painted emergency
orange. And repeat.
To E.B. White
Rain on Park Avenue
South, I walk the boulevard
strip looking for a break.
Let me in, let me cross,
let me be
in New York strolling without
longing for a face
I’ve never seen. Umbrellas
collide into one another
over sidewalks washed off
as an Impressionist painting blurry
as the view I had
before glasses, before
knew there was no cure
for this thirst. Let me in,
let me cross, let me be
here—this city, here is
New York, compressing,
stressing, confessing to
all life this small island still.
She keeps counting without remembering
what she’s counting.
Looking at her cell phone, is it
time? Station after station, I count too.
And I get tired, but I know
I must keep going—bricks in phased crumble,
seconds waiting for a light
to change before I can walk again.
Yes, I count too,
beside her on the train
rolling away—a rhythm
for both of us in our strangeness.
The numbers will be the last
to go—my inheritance—cities, square
feet, jobs, books, CD’s, mothers, lovers, little
deaths. We are nothing
to one another but accidental
companions on the way
to an airport—I despise this
journey where I don’t get to stay
on till the end:
Pennsylvania Station, New York City.
No, I’m getting off
at Newark International to return
to snow in May. What about her? I wonder
what she’s counting on
at the other end.
No one leaves
the hoist up for her. No
need. She’s not going to
go
into the whole 300 versus
500 feet. Just keep back. On foot
it’s easy to forget the doom
to decay eager. This rhythm is the same one
she picked up near the Rock River
before she could speak.
And those rocks we would slip
off come high
tide. Your face drawn
with a cane in all that blown
sand. The painful
part is not being able
to carry things.
Analepsis is my burden, prolepsis
yours. Together,
we drop
to our knees
relieved to have this cold
opening to ourselves.
More rain and seldom
seen plastic artifacts
possess another route
she takes in laughter—listening
to Dylan does it
every time. If
she had more energy,
she would find the source
of all tears. A crystal
lake miles north, surrounded
by willows and a promise
weather dutifully keeps.
She almost wishes it would
just do it—just snow.
(Do I mention the leopard
skin pill box hat here? Or not.)
This room is for music,
that one for shouting
on the fall down.
That’s how I remember it,
how I tried to keep it
straight. But when I got blurry,
I may have released
my vocal chords wrong—a coloring
outside the lines. A tiny bird darts in
and out
of the retro deco
signage above the south-facing front
door. It’s locked. No more
food. One more night
of music in this room,
shouting in that. Tomorrow
the construction site wrapped thick
with plastic rattling
a gentle November death
breath will swallow it
whole. And that’s that.
A barnacle clings
to its host, a kiss-up,
annoying to distraction.
A barnacle hugging
its rocks, the foundation
beds its shore.
Summer ignites itself
Methodist style. Japanese
paper lanterns Noguchi might have made
for Martha Graham’s last dance
alight the campgrounds, set the island aglow
in pinks, oranges, yellows, fire-engine
red awash. A crowd gathers to mingle, a child
may wander tonight
in wonder the way gingerbread
cottages welcome her to their wooden railed porches, dare her
to touch the gossamer skin
on their handmade firefly swarm, cracking paint on their rainbow eaves, beckon
an unconscious desire to trace a piece
of island history with fingertips. Her grip on home
rice paper thin, she wants to believe
her step across these wooden planks will never end. But
as she witnesses this blaze of an island blasting its last August
shouts before a decrescendo toward an autumn whisper
few hear, fewer comprehend, she knows she must relinquish
the island to return it to those who find
illumination into night without
a lantern, without a tabernacle song.
The bees are dying. No one knows
why. Saying hello as you roll
away does nothing
to clear away this rain.
The beekeeper rarely speaks,
his voice cracks from disuse. I resist
filling in his blanks. They are not
blank, but beveled
with premonition. Lightning
could destroy the hive. But that’s not it.
And if it was, you still wouldn’t stand still
long enough to take anyone’s advice.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 