A burning
to the eyes, a jet’s piercing roar
and clear vapor trail
overhead jumpstart the day.
No one walks
on those snow-covered trails
in the city park
on a morning like this. An asteroid
streaks by on schedule, a meteor
blasts in uninvited. Watch
those extremities—exposed out
there, or accidentally brushed
against a radiator
working so hard.
And sometimes
there’s no safe passage
over ice.
On a cocktail
napkin to be recited
in a pub
on Valentine’s Day. Never
drank whiskey when
I still drank. Never
understood romance
when I still believed
it could happen
to me. Never stopped
believing it could
happen to you.
To be
afraid to walk
on these icy sidewalks
is to freeze not just this life but
my soul.
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.
Everything echoes
interruption from 5 ½ months
ago. Another trip
to an art museum
suspended. Piles
of new poems stacked
against a stucco
wall unblogged. All walks
come with a hollowed-out
hive halfway
through. If it’s a before
after scenario, this is
the in-progress video
that won’t end.
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?
I am New England dirt,
the taste of beets out back.
I am not brownstone—
not urban by birth. I am
still in quarry depth,
the scent of cars rusting beneath.
I am not ocher—not red
iron ore impure. I am sipping
fresh water from a claw-foot tub
turned spring, overflowing
to Bone Lake at dusk
and warm. But I am not
the moon to be collected.
I am not forty jokes memorized—
not working a room,
timing accent and plot. I am
ready to mark this laughter
the colors of a flower bed
against brick. I am the line
drawn purple—blues and reds
of a road map
preparing to fold everything
I am
(except magnetic north) in place.
Brother
lost into night
has not gone far enough
to want to be discovered lost—
brother.
Not gonna be about
death. Not gonna
be about addiction. Not
gonna be
about the river, ice, wind
chill, water main
breaks. If I say
it’s about the red
wheelbarrow, or a dare
to eat a peach, or
mermaids singer, or
heaven forbid moths
laughing—well, we’re all
thieves in here anyway.
These are not
tears. A wind
chill emotion erupts
without warning. Who
leaves their dog
outside a café
on a day like today?
Two-inch thick
ice will last
longer than many
relationships.
As I peel
on and off
layers of peace,
another January
gets sealed
shut. Another recipe
scrolls down
the side of a wall
outside a venue
that sells
no food. And these words
will not
be sung indoors.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 