Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash » Morning Poems

Beneath Her

Arambler — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 00:47:39 +0000

No chance for nighttime
dreaming—a neighbor’s dance
beat disruptions wreck

any hope
of true REM. Her tolerance

for talking to drunks
has diminished
over a decade in reprieve

till it’s shrunk
to the size of a single shot
of espresso

she’s going to sip
in the morning start-over.

Seen Through Fog

Arambler — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 18:21:07 +0000

There’s a story behind
Staten Island Ferry
orange. I can’t tell
it but can hear its tone
revealed in a soothing voice-

over through early morning fog.
Routine commuting becomes heightened
by the transcendent
moments before
the marathon begins

on the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge. By a skyline
permanently scarred, by a keel
built with steel
from collapsed towers, by film

and TV footage of our favorite
characters crossing one way
or the other. Sometimes someone
who’s had too much
winds up where he started

without getting closer
to home. Color

declares, or hides, or widens
the channel for multiple
interpretations. Always the same
orange, always the same
distance either way.

Won’t Go Back to the Cellar

Arambler — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 01:17:12 +0000

An open safety pin
lies on a sidewalk
sprinkled with snow
as the temperature

plummets. She second
guesses her choice
to leave it there. Questions
the optimism she offered

a stranger last week. A weapon
is a weapon. Drunk
driving is driving
drunk, underage or

over it. If she had
a license, it would have caught
up with her
by now. A sigh

and accelerated pace,
pedestrian reprieves
count just as much.

Where’s the Frozen River?

Arambler — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 00:52:51 +0000

I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest

the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass

Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice

hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.

Ferried

Arambler — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 00:13:07 +0000

A violent thought drives
him to grab
the nearest railing
so he won’t spill

himself onto the deck.
The calm water
is a song
he wrote before he knew

how to speak
to women with mouths

like hers. White knuckles
and wet wrists, he remembers
now. Oh, that’s right.

On the Brink

Arambler — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 23:36:03 +0000

Saturday morning ginger
essence on my skin

to keep me eager
without doom, a cat scratch
scar on my ring finger
print that won’t quite heal

is no stigmata.
A tiny smear

of blood on paper
doesn’t speak
in any tongues. Aroma
therapy is no joke.

Whose Gingerbread

Arambler — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 01:37:38 +0000

Do they remember
months after the solstice? Who

will speak
for you tomorrow morning

before strange fog
clears? Tonight this parade

answers no questions.

The 6B

Arambler — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 01:34:20 +0000

Get on the bus—then get off.
Plan aborted, a walk
in a circle is
one answer. No one else picks

through racks in a dress
boutique to break
her stride. Six degrees

not of separation, but of burn
then numbness
if she waits
for another one too long.

Whatever It Takes

Arambler — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 00:50:14 +0000

If I had a drawer
filled with aging apples
to sniff, I might not need
to repeat the word

rosewater
into the stagnant air.
Might comprehend narrative
in its raw state.

Dragline

Arambler — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 23:16:13 +0000

November mist nowhere
near any Big Sur perch.
This morning might give
way to snow or
nothing at all. I might give
in to references
to vertical transport or
stand on the ground
floor and celebrate
these wooden stairs.