How many walls will she paint orange
before the urge to find replacements
dissolves in spirit
of turpentine? It is a question she doesn’t need
to answer till other colors haunt
her, flash inside her eyelids
in jealous rages, till another violent act
unfolds flat against this bare surface.
Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye
for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—
someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens
around messages that near
miss home.
You once said if I didn’t smell
like smoke I would smell
like sex. Now that the air has cleared,
I just want to smell
fresh coffee brewing
come morning, an old book fanning
open in the afternoon, traditional Tibetan
incense burning come evening,
rosewater splashed on my face
before I sleep.
“Onstage the Scottish musicians begin to break the skin of the evening and the music fills the room—mandolin, guitar, fiddle.”
—Colum McCann, from Zoli
It doesn’t matter if it’s shattered
diamonds or glass she sees winking
in fresh snow to carry her home
after dark. This splinter
pain touches her left foot
where the big toe attaches itself
to the sole. Nothing there
but a nagging to remind her
she is no exception. Mortal—
with a limited number of steps, breaths—
she’ll strive to keep them
in unison as long as a splinter
moon allows.
The color orange engulfs her
in hazy dreams—appears as a sheer
shawl to web her shoulders,
a pair of lace-up long boots
to hug her calves. It’s not the color
she has to relinquish
upon waking. Just the fog
that presses it down, packs it tight
against her chest.
What she uses to wedge
beneath one leg to level
the table could be a match
book she no longer needs. Could be
a roll of used clichés she’s been saving
to stuff in his pipe. But it’s gone—ashes
have settled to the bottom
halfway across the country. The bowl
never held much to make it worth wasting
a light on. As for the rest, she’s busy
writing it down.
Most—but not all—of the stain
gets removed. A return to wrinkle free
breaths, the smell of snow melt
over concrete, rosewater spilled
on a quilt, the color red buffed
without a hint of orange. It’s not
just about ashes—to strive
for purity even now is worth the energy
it takes to dispute or hang
in willing suspension.
And sometimes we just bounce.
Do your trills go up
or down, do you believe
in urban tornadoes, ending
on an odd number? Are you defined
by your questions, or do you answer
to a straight line? I wouldn’t
want to live in a world
with only multiple choice, without
adaptation, where streets are
always plumb with rivers
that take us home.
That mannequin torso
I see inside the second floor corner
apartment window facing West 15th
is no Apollo. Has nothing
but its center shell
that won’t encase a heart to shape
and display a wool great
coat, button
down cotton shirt, knit shawl, black
choker, silk tie. From an icy street,
I study its lamplight glow after dark
and suddenly remember
I have one too. And
she hasn’t lost her head.
It’s happening again—distortion
in the sky. Not another season
in sight. The man in a neon vest drops
his shovel. A bus rolls up—
wheels on a new white blanket.
Won’t last. Disintegration
at ground level. I watch from my skyway
perch—it is warm up
inside. Which one in stupid hat and gloves
is you? I gave up the search
decades ago. Now I extinguish the light.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 