To Ohio and back is to be rhythmic
and prodigal. A daughter
and sister from the start. Add
in-law, friend, aunt over
the years. These roles sustained
where that one is not
in any state. Beloved only
to you who cannot be seen.
A plane’s lights flash
in the midnight sky overhead.
Poetry
What If There Were No Quotation Marks?
I am an interloper who eavesdrops
on her own dreams. Could be called
repeating myself, could be
that I plagiarize my own
muses. Could be time
to take this industry beyond
these interior walls. Who owns
the rest will follow.
Permission to Steal—Granted or Denied
I need some midnight
oil. So you say:
This is my dream property. Hands off.
What my fingertips won’t reach
my imagination strokes. Alert in the dark,
these invisible invaders take
everything and clear
the path for you
to make more. Dream on.
We Who Would Want
Burn down a house to preserve
a memory—sunsets flash
in tiny explosions over the roof
for the last time. Tears
to flood the guilt
for what we’ve killed. Paranoia
mistaken for confidence, she stands
alone behind a locked door. So convinced
it won’t get better than when she didn’t know
better, she joins us on the curb. This contagion
compels her to ask what’s next.
Linen II
A weaver dreams of LED lights laced
into her cloak for a nighttime ride. I prefer
my draping fibers unadorned over
my shoulders, or at the bottom
of my cup first thing
in the morning. I do not deny
her those visions—my own constellations
glimmer in the banjo
of that Otis Taylor song
playing after dark.
Linen
From anxiety to anatomy
of influence, thievery gets defined. Found
beneath invisible matrix lines, each love
letter wears thins till nothing
shows through but the see through
garment of regret. Is that our inheritance?
Can it be something other than
glitter on silk-screened
flowers—daisies or wisteria drive me
up the stucco wall. Nothing precious
about that garden you wear
on your chest—beyond our trembling reach.
Textile
More than surface design, those fibers
take root in her mythmaking
self. Another one makes “we”
an object. She doesn’t know how
to plan B before A, C, or T. Monograms
were not for her. Not enough patience,
or that old needle phobia
resurfacing—it never really left.
Hammering Off the Investment
John Berryman’s name
surfaces twice in one week, Medusa’s head
appears in print, then on a wall, next
a ceiling, or could be hanging midair
in atrium space. Clichés from Friday afternoon
haunt her come Sunday evening, no matter who
she speaks to on Saturday, no matter whose
voice warms then breaks
open her heart. Lost
wax casting is an industry
she can believe in without
having to see. In nine technical steps, her form
is firm and free.
Vacation Blindness
Could be that smell
of the outdoor pool
in the center of a ring
of motor lodge rooms—no interior
hallway, no escape
from a three-year-old’s
fate. Could be those Thanksgiving
celebrations held in hotel
ballrooms—all the family,
including a father’s wives past,
present, future. And affiliated
teens. Could be how adulthood changes
associations to reach this time
of obsession with inns—
urban, seaside, roadside, airport
side, and the stories they hold
for her to rescue. She’s ready
to roll out her ladder, she’s sleeping
in the double bed next to the window
overlooking a courtyard fountain
tonight. Sealed shut,
it barricades her from that pungent hint
of chlorine. Just in case
someone might fall in.
White Space
A dream with its middle erased, a phantom
limb—it unnerves her come that moment morning
coffee kicks in. Rain
that doesn’t happen
gets stored in those places no one mentions
in status reports. She’s about
to speak—her own laughter burns
her cheeks. Out of practice, she clears her throat
in a hurry. Still, lyric over
narrative breaks free.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 