It’s tension. This talk
of the temporary. No shelter—
but a stretch
to represent. I
would not live
in a tent. To go
to parties means meeting
a man who says:
“Let’s light up
the Third Avenue Bridge.”
Not burn it
down. That’s a different party
on a different night.
Because the darkness can
be so random I rarely go
out without my torch.
In the throes
of my intention
disorder, I forget
your name, how to reach
the top of you, how to
let go of those limbs
you wave over me.
In these fits, the stories
I tell are not mine
except when they are.
That I come from ash,
that my mother left me
in the rain
without a skeleton
shelter, that I still
eat dirt (raw not baked)—
these are some of the ones
I intend to qualify
when I no longer suffer
from disease over the way
jacks wish to cut you down.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 