I wish I liked the taste
of pomegranate seeds
in a dish, would become
an object of seasonal fertility,
object of someone’s desire,
if I could only dismiss
the sour burning
on my tongue.
I cannot. He kisses me—
my lips still stinging
from the pulp—full
on the mouth. I wish
I could hold onto
the taste, know it
pleases and frightens
all the senses,
know it signals
a message within:
This is going to be harder than you think, this acquiring
a resistance to his taste.
Cockroaches of the sea
with a sting, jellyfish swarm
near our shore
and ones in Spain, Australia, Japan.
If it really is survival
of the fittest and the bees keep dying
inland, I need to fall
in love with a faceless
marauder, need to embrace
a new kind of welt the way I used to embrace
you and your luxurious, endangered
kisses on the rock
studded beach, now closed
for the rest of the summer. First, yellow
flags for caution,
then red to say no
to swimming in the rip current, and now this blue.
They are invisible
till it’s too late. Should I have let you
bite me
the way you asked? Why
didn’t you just do it without waiting for permission? Why
didn’t we ignore the red flags,
let the pull and drag
determine our next move? You weren’t
a very good swimmer. This is why I must
learn how to love all over again.
You were better
with bees in the field, protected
by a wooded hillside of Pine and Lady Slippers.
She was just a smoking pool
that night as any other. She belonged
to the faceless generation
till
she found hers
on the back of an envelope
addressed to no one.
Coming out of retirement to awaken deep
sleepers is one
person’s garbage becoming another
person’s treasure. Blue
mussels and sponges,
black sea bass and mackerel, marine spoils
over a grave of a displaced
life. I cannot count
the number of hours spent riding
Redbirds—the #1, “Last
stop, 242nd Street, Van Cortlandt Park!”
But it’s a lie—it’s a loop,
a ghost of one beneath
City Hall. I can feed off
this ring. I do eat fish.
Mention of mountain
ledges reminds her to speak
of that smashed
pump and its heel
in her street last night, in its gutter
trap this morning. How
do they lose
their mates, a pair severed
and shut down, a high-top hanging
on the old telephone
wire by its one good
lace. Not the first,
nor the last, she crosses
yesterday’s steps
in tomorrow’s unpredictable
boots. She’s gotten this far so far.
Evergreens smelling of the soft
side of an island
catch me sideways
and straight on—I never met
a tree I didn’t like.
I can cough away fright
as long as I remember
what I said about trees.
And the whys of this are tonics
I no longer wish
to mix. I taste,
for the first time
without guilt, the knots
and sighs of pine.
He talked up the stone
through the storm-clenched night.
A noise so round, it became
her rapture.
I need you tonight,
moon, am collapsing in
the curve of you. I found
a wrench in the street this morning.
I need you tonight,
throwing tools
(I am afraid to use)
before me, am reaching to cradle
my own knees—
bruised by misjudgment.
These arms, these fingers are too
stiff. Right tighter, left
looser, bolts land
arranged in a pattern. I found
it could help
reckon through clouds,
stars aligning behind.
Regrets only
raise the lower
tree line equally. Bottom
leaves hidden from sunlight, they die
at the same rate. If I succeed
in not showing up
for another family pageant to appear
before you a doom
eager stranger mouthing
simple questions
about your coniferous forest,
I just might dig up my balance
beam in this black dirt.
Just might please the wind
to respond through your branches overnight.
When I look at the moon, I believe in God
in phases. Because he who rapes the body no
longer rapes thought, I said, “no.”
When I look at the moon, I believe in God in pauses
revealed in shadow giving consent to light.
When a new moon gives back
the whole sky, I’ll begin
to believe this body is mine.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 