Only you could get away
with that haircut—you
really didn’t. If I met your brother
in a hallway or on a baseball field
would I see your face, hear your deeply accented
laugh, touch that beard
you shaved off
too soon? Would he know
why this stranger observes
his every move? I continue
to risk being
misunderstood for one of those
moments we used to share before
gravity and all other laws overtook us.
Tonight
Noguchi saves
all of us from those fears
we nourish in our souls before
morning.
For MJN crossing beneath,
for NYC connecting across,
for The Brooklyn Bridge rescue working destiny
Advance your vantage
point, collapse
your facade of steel,
your gutted concrete floor.
Collide your bridge maker
with mine, collage your hand over mouth
with my eyes shut,
vocal chords in strangulation—
a scream
a void
to coalesce to convalesce
on one promenade
of material unidentifiable yet.
Coordinate the crossing—
bare feet
dust
ash caked faces
no veil could protect,
suits meaningless, ties undone
till they become arms swaying.
A human chain
of events. A human
behavior changing—
never
no way
when
now.
They designed bridges
to be passageways.
Make them good
to get no further
than this. It is still where it has been,
the destination stands
between these pedestrian elevating towers
still here.
One stop
sign, two
spritzes of rosewater, three
sips of iced mint
tea, four
acoustic guitar tunes, five
kisses on the lips—we
almost got away with a sixth.
I still live
in a coin operated
world. These social networking
tricks do not align
with how I shrink
from true human
contact when the moon begins
to count. If he kept the letters
I wrote, where would they be
now? Hearts bought
at estate sales
are non-refundable.
What was once a blush
you so eagerly sought
to induce has become
a flush
into my middle
age. The gap has been shrinking
steadily for nine years. I hope to catch
you in another nine. Grief—nothing
embarrassing about it.
Acacia or yellow
tulips won’t do. Lime
blossoms too much, bellflowers
not enough. No,
I choose you
because it was the heat
rising from my throat
across my cheeks
to my ears
that he wanted
to generate.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It revolved around Boston,
the Cape, Amherst, the Vineyard, Woburn,
an entire state—
our common ground. You—
with your accent and clearly delineated roots. Me—
with a brief history,
my mother’s story, and an incurable longing
no word in English
could contain. All of our plotting
and heightened talk went nowhere beyond
imagination. Now that I know
you are back home, I’ll fly
East so we can finally spend a moment
together on this sacred turf. You—
ashes. Me—alive
more than ever, ready to be enough
for the both of us.
For non-drivers a dead man’s
curve exposes an inner belt
deep within. Just as suddenly,
just as lethal, just as exhilarating
for the survivor. But I
don’t know if I should accelerate
around this grief.
I collect dates
as if they were door
handles. Seek the perfectly shaped one
to build a saudade
life around. Your birth, or death,
or the afternoon you got divorced—
it could be one of those.
But I choose to lock
my eyes on a calendar
with the first day of school
circled in red. Tuesday,
September 2nd, 1980. You looked right
in red. Let the vintage ink
smear. Now I will too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 