Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash

Overheard

Arambler — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 02:15:46 +0000

Never been to Colorado. Don’t know
if I ever will get
over that desire to go

East. With exceptions, a 10-mile
strip of land on either bank
of the Mississippi

River is my invisible
electric fence. A fuchsia
corduroy overcoat and sea

green fishnet
sweater can absorb the shock
only so much.

40 Watt

Arambler — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 01:18:51 +0000

No pity. No sighs
behind her back. If

she says the word
out loud, it will become

her. No grace
period. She hums

“Female Jesus”
as she walks

the streets alone
at night—that last

Athens, GA, scene
still fresh. No colder

here than there—
and that’s the real pity.

Yesterday’s Treasure

Arambler — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 01:13:33 +0000

If I concentrate
on the color
I might wear
out tomorrow, I could forget

my father is
a hoarder. Even now, tubes
of ChapStick (without
microphones), rolls

of toilet paper, stacks
of Hershey bars (dark
chocolate without
nuts) surround him.

Whoever stole his stash
of words
isn’t talking.

Mistaken Identity

Arambler — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 01:09:04 +0000

Looking for a late night
barber, he sees a glass
seahorse in a shop
window. No more eating
fish. Who needs a lip
shine with a whisper
so round? He untangles
his daily geometries, walks
across plaza ice
to get home before
some bicyclist mistakes
him for himself.

Pace Off

Arambler — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 00:53:02 +0000

The mayor declares no
more skyways. Till what? We learn how

to design the perfect
compass for indoor air? Now that I know

my way around up there after two
decades, I will not give

them up. A hybrid
walk might spread in all directions

on all levels—inside and out.

Who Will Copyright Her Red Soles

Arambler — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 00:09:48 +0000

Before she tells all
in blog hell? Her mind
drizzles dangerously on
winter Sundays. Not
frozen by ironic messages
from a pregnant woman
about saying “baby”

out loud. Maybe it’s not
about the nephew
after all—Baby.

Born Yesterday

Arambler — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 00:07:14 +0000

Your big sister runs
to meet you
the way your second
oldest aunt ran
down the driveway
to tell me the news

when your father was born.
Some chain link fences

are mended
overnight while we sleep.
Some cynicism
can be cured. Leo—
you are a healer
one day into it.

Blanks

Arambler — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 02:10:58 +0000

The public safety
building skyway has nothing
in its display case. No hint
of what got abandoned, what could become
enclosed in glass. She could

start over. Wind her way
through 7+ miles
of second floor passageways.
Could comment on the return
of Minnesota winter. But

another tabula rasa
might serve best to shake

her free of this burden of shoulder
shrugging routine.

Clement

Arambler — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 02:03:58 +0000

No more talking
about the weather, a giant
dragonfly dangles

from the ceiling
inside a giant
library. Her services

are no longer needed. Justice
will prevail
or fail without her. It’s January—

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.