On the 8th floor in April. All graffiti
is political. No bullfrogs in the sculpture
garden that I can see. I would bring
in my gecko
if I had one. Taggers
wrote on the spoon
bridge but not
the cherry. A question that gets erased
before answering—the nonsense
can be the best part.
Is where she leaves
her messages. There was a to him
till there wasn’t.
She can’t write
away the ache of witnessing
a parent slowly evaporate
on life’s bark
while still being here. Only a temporary
empty, she’ll be retrieved—
dents banged out,
recycled, refilled.
Then she’ll rest in those concave
curves and remember the name
he gave her might mean Ash.
1. I realize I’m the only one
wearing a hat on the walk to work.
2. Finally find the $100 math error
in a fee proposal.
3. Wonder about green
roofs in strong winds.
4. Wait for a pedestrian
foothold in rush hour traffic.
5. I drift through skyways
with everything on mute.
6. Don’t buy a banana
that’s too yellow.
7. Contemplate the green
banana that never ripened.
8. Notice cufflinks
on sleeves for the first time.
9. I’m relieved to be
ring free.
10. Ready to go home.
Poised to take on
another breathing
spell, I brush someone
else’s powdered
sugar off the orange
table. If I ran
into him now
in this rain, who
would ignore whom
first? Offer umbrella
shelter—a cheek
to kiss? He used to curse
me for answering
my own questions. Who’s
left? I am, I say.
All chairs face the window
onto the street when it rains. For a split
second, I forget why
I’m worried. It makes me anxious—
this forgetting. Then I remember: that death
thing. The when, where, and why
of it. No, that’s not it.
Can I walk the mile home without ruining
all that I’ve tried to iron
flat? Will I be able to pull that umbrella
from my pack in time? Will the laundry room
be empty tonight? What a relief.
And then finally the rain
comes to crash night into its lover
lighting to pronounce a distant crack
of ecstasy. I won’t go
to the window. I know. Tomorrow
morning the world
will smell of lilacs and the memory
of wet concrete
and bark. And into it
I will walk around a corner
ready to give desire
another chance.
Two lipsticks total
euphoric recall
beyond what this purse
can hold. To be high
above the trees
on a balcony
railed with red
metal is the opening
scene, is the last
time she almost fell
into a black
out. Period. Under
any conditions
there will be
red lips.
She’s going to write another
poem about how she almost
moved
to Georgia. And she’ll use
move
at least two more times
before finding relief
for a blistered left
thumb. This burn—an accident.
An embarrassment.
An encounter
with a flat
iron nothing like the wedge
of a building where her former
self began.
Then the move
back
to Connecticut, then the big one
to Minneapolis—not Athens.
One music town
or another
moves
ahead. A northern girl
in the end—so far.
One hundred tornadoes. A fifth
of American Honey poured
on a stranger’s Raisin Bran. A heartland
spreads and evaporates
without any salt
in the water. It could happen
here—could happen
anywhere. It has.
That urban myth
protecting the urban
center—debunked. One hundred
tornadoes. A fifth of anything
clear. Street game
disasters.
A citrus hangover on a humid spring
Sunday leaves her certain
she can smell the lilac bushes
on an island she used to know. What if
a bridge of land appeared above
the white caps to graft it to the cape.
She would still take the ferry. Would still hear the almost
in peninsula. She would still believe
in separation
over creation myths. And still want
to build her hotel
for pariahs on the clay
cliffs overlooking that wild
side of the Atlantic.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 