Or, sea of meerkats
in the middle
of Times Square. No,
scratch that. Lawn
chairs floating
over a dying lake. Sentries
fold into their own
whispers. Who
will protect
the walkers from
the strollers from
those other
peripatetic clans? I’ve been here
before. Or, maybe not. December
morning fog dampens
and loosens my hold
on some bad lines
from a mediocre movie.
The title has already drifted off.
The corner where two
windows meet. The view
from a dark room
onto a fog-dampened
night. Stories
dissolve when they hit
pavement, or never get exposed
to atmosphere at all. It stings
to be so poised
to burst forth
in a voice soft
and deep, but to be
the one holding back
exquisite blackness
with a candle flame
that laps up
fear and air
till someone’s lover
returns. A woman’s true
laughter will float on
still water
to break through
soot and other romantic
toxins falling out.
Did I invent
you? A mirage
of a mural painted
on the side
of a bus. Airstream—not
Greyhound, VW, Trailways, twinkle, diesel,
hybrid, double
decker, or magic. To miss
an imaginary friend, to become
jealous of her lovers
is to wear down
a postcard of Lisbon
in the 50s before
I was born. Did you
imagine me this far
down the dirt
road in the fog?
We speak in waves
over particles of breath,
briny breathing,
this boardwalk holds up
more than it will tell.
It’s the simple words
in solid greens, gray blues,
the color of sand after it rains,
it’s these that endure
in the moon’s wake. Without
a single word, we still could
talk as we walk,
tide coming in,
using the language
hidden in the dunes.
In my dream the dead console
the living about others
who may have died. Rumors
turn a 60s ranch brick house
into a warren of hidden
phobias—a different one
for each room. Fear of
wool, not cotton wool, brings her
to the farthest corner
of the cellar where a sneeze
is just a sneeze. And it is you,
my dear friend, who are really gone.
That other friend left
my life but lives on
in another warren on another island
with his superconductors and scattering waves.
A landscape formed, rocks
that dissolve
over time, inside the cave
smiles are felt,
not seen. From there
a walk along
an unnatural canal,
his eyes don’t adjust
so quickly. A pair
of shades and he’s ready
to destroy myths:
Bats can see.
Tornadoes can pummel
downtown church steeples.
Some people can go
home. He’s not
one of them.
We sit beside a pool
inside a villa’s iron gates. A foreign country—
which one? Do you
live here? I know
I don’t. Take my driver,
you say. I don’t want to
leave. I try to get
your attention. Why
is this box
full of water? Something sloshes
inside. But when I lift the lid
all I see is
a science pamphlet
written in English. I read
the words aloud to you
hoping for a humorous phrase
or double entendre too profound
for you to ignore. Karst. Sinkhole.
Biodiversity. Endangered
what? Tourism? Amnesia? Fantasy?
You look me directly in the eye, or
you see a greater
flamingo land on the stone wall
behind me. Whoever blinks first—
A dew droplet. Bubble
in silhouette. A hole-punched
hole perforates
the sky. Remove the rusted
O and take
a look inside. If
the peephole is too
high, lower
your expectations. Low
lower slowest
way to count
clouds interfering
with a direct route
to the interior
of the other side.
Eventually we begin
to repeat ourselves—the same three
chords, color
pattern, farewell
line in a breakup
text, taste
of ginger
on the tongue. Everything
becomes someone’s
déjà vu, even the truest
saudade expressed
on the side
of a broken
boat in a field.
Step on
my shadow, but don’t
float away
before I recall
your first private
murmurs at dusk.
Inverted, elongated,
fringed, unfringed, banged, shingled,
side-parted at the nape
of the neck, scandalous,
modern, cloched, graduated,
shaggy, buzzed,
A-line, revolutionary,
mere fashion statement, angry
flower, or wayward guitarist
sleeping on your porch.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 