From this perch high
above the traffic, she can see
you’ll never slow
down to make her
exit, to even read
the sign. Her number
is not your number. Her flirtation
with naming
tools—not yours. But
then again
she’s nearsighted. And you are
long distance.
Can you hear me
over the sound of a fret
hammer? I know
you’re not looking—I can
say anything.
No one’s going to get embarrassed.
Not even my future
self in her quiet
attention to every detail
you create.
Remnants of an unnamed
storm still smashing
against the Long Beach Island shoreline. Reception still
good. Saturday Night Live
rerun in full ridiculous swing.
Who’s the host? Who remembers?
Two bodies
entwined as if the rest
of the world’s become a silent movie
during intermission. Her first—not
his. Memory captured and recorded. The world resumes
its 1979 footage.
I’ve been
afraid to live
in a world without you.
Words gone under bridges, music
remains.
Can you walk barefoot through dune
grass at high
tide and predict how many purple
mussel shells
will be uncovered
next? I wonder if this image of you
I’ve constructed
from ash bark and river glass
could come close
to dampening your bare skin.
Just past midnight
wishes travel
instantaneously from the south
shore to the west
bank and beyond
(a mile or so). The drop
of salt
water says to the fresh
one in the middle:
I want
to see pictures.
Too mesmerized
by his voice, how he plays
your guitar, to dig out
my camera,
comes the muddy reply.
Once I’ve driven those day
dreams of a dead man
(almost my lover) off the dirt
road, I lay down
on cool stone
to sleep. And dream of you,
a living man
(never my lover). I don’t control
stories that get told
while I sleep. Lyric
never narrative. A complicated card
game I couldn’t play,
I give up and walk down bent
corridors with you
looking back
at me. Is it still there—
that precious
metal band? I can’t see
your left hand.
Into the labyrinth—
a kiss. I wake
to imprint this sweet
consolation prize
on the day.
First it was exotic bird
feathers, then Madagascar ebony
wood, next the songs
themselves, tears
shed over the bounty
of sound. Who’s
the biggest
thief? Traders
before the hum.
This is my novelty
act she declares
to the empty chairs
rimming a painted
blue room. Watch me
flash my willpower
through still air. A cigarette,
ashtray, bottle
of vodka, shot
glass, and the number 8
all lined up
on a table
she will not touch.
Now for Act II.
Or wade
through your holy
waters. Sacred
mud is best
left unstirred
by human feet. Bone
won’t regenerate. So I live
for restabilization
and the myths
of power lost,
forgotten, accidentally
regained that wash
up after late
summer storms.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 