Numb’s the word.
Just past summer
solstice, no rain, muck
blows off
as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but
they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation
is over.
I’m not ready.
My jaw aches
from clenching
teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out,
I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.
Meet me at the bus stop
where we won’t wait
to see another quarter
moon translate the sky
into a language for pedestrians
without a bridge. We won’t wait
for anything—we’ll be walking across
12 lanes of traffic,
all lights with us, headed for
a destination we shouldn’t have
been so eager to meet.
A straight shooter, she
imagines everything becomes visible
on her face. Imagines she casts
no shadow, is exposed
even when it rains.
But
into those blind spots go
whole narratives unfolding
with characters she didn’t invent
roaming places she’s afraid
to step into—transparencies
crumpled and torn, dark
rooms boarded up.
I am the impulse
to give
you that book. I am
the melancholy
stirring within
as I study a 19th-century
façade that’s lost
its building
on East 12th. I am the joy
of hearing a childhood
friend’s laughter
still ring the same
in my ears pressed
against sea shells
we picked up
on our way to discovering
that one perfectly rubbed
piece of sea glass. I am
the desire to walk
up and down city
sidewalks at home
and the resignation
that these are visitor
steps. Here I am
all shadow over stones
ghosted away
and ready to reappear.
When Plan B could be
better than A, it’s time
to reconsider
the route you keep
choosing to scramble home.
Another chance for naked
thought escapes into a threatening
sky before it tips
into night. Nothing comes
of the gusts. What blows
over wasn’t as transparent
as she wished. Dangling
power lines frighten her
now as they did when
she ran all the way to the point
for a slow spin.
Sweeping in the nude (not
naked) has other implications
laid over hardwood. Who
gets to say when
a book’s a book isn’t
my question. Beneath
the chaise, the curvature
becomes pronounced. I may
be too modest to chase it out.
Fold up those black bat
wings, try not to break
any bones. Would I stay drier
with a mature adult
protecting me overhead?
Getting tangled
in hair is a myth. I could see you
if these clouds would disintegrate
is another. When I look up
it’s all concave and vital again.
Her stomach won’t flip
to break hearts, she cannot
fathom being a begin
parenthesis without
a promise
of an end
somewhere down the ragged line.
That she can think circles
around herself
is gymnastics enough.
Twenty-first century letter
boxers jump the fence
into a dog park, follow
text messages on the tiniest
chance they might match up
all the clues leading them
to the diamond ring
treasure. I’m back one
and a half centuries
with Emily still writing
“my letter to the World
that never wrote to me.”
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 