No part of this story begins
in a barn. Stalks
of rhubarb become
site non-specific
art in the right
urban hands. A brand
name that uses the color
green may harm
more than tired eyes. Plato
was a man
before a town. The river
will flow with or without
its name spelled
out in blue
on a map
with mills—no barns.
It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start
the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),
a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide
that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him
but never got to know
who he was.
Who digs deepest doesn’t always get
to keep the gifts. It helps
for the poet to be
beautiful. Does she believe the homeless
man who shouts
“those are gorgeous legs”? What does she have to lose
now in this 49th year? Maybe earrings—but
nothing else. Jewelry
makes her anxious. When
will the wanting stop?
She had a yellow dress once—
it was too much.
If she could hide
at the back
table in an alley
café, listening
to “Brandy” piped in
from somewhere
behind a bar, she would be
no closer to reaching
you and your unspoken beauty
in paint. Would still not know how
to say hang straight.
She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen
to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill
onto the round table with change.
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Have the right
of way, where do giants go
to rest? No more
shrugging this off, I will stand
straight and knock
all senseless drunks off
their postures. I will,
I will—after I crawl
through this passage
to sweeter light.
Three out of four
ceiling fans spin high
above the café floor. This corner
table doesn’t wobble—she’s free
to write hard or lean heavy
into daydreams long buried
in a cold vault.
Hours before sipping iced raspberry
green tea (the color
of irresistible smiles), she walked
the trail leading out
of town. Began with listening to the first
song on the first album Uncle
Tupelo recorded. Twenty
years ago today, she was still
not here. She believes
in increments. Wonders what happened
to all the percolators. In this green
café, the view of the old CC
across the street zigzags
off the map.
It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 