Oh, hyacinth.
And a strip of lilac
cement above a grid
of characterless windows.
She questions
why
a shed needs decorating.
Show me your beams,
my bones, instead.
Poetry
No Sleep till Brooklyn
What a privilege to be
in a booth by herself. What a message
to send in a bottle
filled with air. What a color
to believe in
when the photo turns
out dark. What eyes
to feel upon her. What a shock
to see boxers on a large screen
TV behind the bar. What
a relief not to be teetering
on the edge
of a wooden floor. What a sound
her heart makes
when she recognizes how long
it’s been since she needed
to identify the name of a cocktail—ingredients
weighing her down
cellar steps to irrelevance.
Cult of Benevolence
A group chant in the back room. Espresso
machines hiss
in the main. The chanters clap. I may
know the words but I drink
the standard drip black
up here with coffee
jerks. I was no mixologist. Sometimes
it still hurts to mingle.
In the Literary Commons
Words read upside
down, written
at an angle, the floor vibrates
when people pass by. Sticks
for the wobbly
table—that one’s mine.
I will use
any excuse to be this
shaken without visible calamity.
Tags East
She’s going to repeat
herself. Another third
rail near miss, search
for a boat to catch
before it goes
beneath that bridge. Guardian
angels smirk
behind glass block. A white
fire truck unhooked and parked
at the curb. Self-plagiarize
enough, and slate won’t hold
sleep walkers in
suspension
over the riverbed.
To know what will
requires more
encounters with trap doors
than she’s willing to risk—no
matter how many
times she gets that urge.
No Access
A different cast
of characters, the chain
of cause and effect drapes
across the same
forbidden entrance. She burns
through them too intensely
on an old diesel train
passing through towns
named after men
she knew for a night
or two on the way
to more. She never got off
the rails long enough
to recognize how she was using
up this allotment
just as she used up
all her drink tickets
half a lifetime
too soon. Now she never gets off
at all. Better to listen
to that rhythmic chug and roll
from inside this coach class car.
Reflecting Pool: A Cinquain
To be
farther along
this lilac scented lane
is better than further into
mirrors.
Census Blanks
Rebellion in long black
boots and Paper Mate flare
ink. Are those hearts
on the cap clip—a branding
she wouldn’t trust? Never
bother with a steady pace. No grace
in her stride toward another
pair of male arms. It hurts her
more than they would imagine.
One person household, an apartment
number she recites
over the noise of a question
about a parking voucher
she’s entitled to. She’ll answer
the next one—tightlipped for now.
In the Audience with Eyes Closed
Speaking in captions, she drinks
nostalgia from a red rock
glass. It tastes almost
sour—sweet kicked in
the jaw with a steel
toed boot firmly encasing
the foot of a man
she used to know. In biblical stories,
the knowing
would be absolute. Once two
bodies collide and become
affixed—nothing
with two hands can pull
apart the memory of their imprints.
But outside official belief, she lays with grace
in a black striped shirt. Forgotten
or not, she won’t get
drunk from a cocktail tonight.
Exposure Closure
To cash in
a past, pick
a year—1992,
better yet 1991—
would be too easy.
I’m done being
easy. Narratives
wrap around words
compressed. A loose loop
of letters with clear beginning,
middle,
end would be a legible expose
yourself delivery
method. But
it’s what gets packed in
so tightly—one lover’s lip
smashed against another’s ear.
Turns out, boys tell secrets too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 