Would she know
balance if
it knocked her off
this pedestrian bridge
she stands on? Closed
for repairs starting tomorrow,
it could be
another unreliable witness.
Month: May 2010
Written on the Skin
Total exposure before a second
full moon passes over
the sky to our right is my wrong
impulse—the one I don’t have
the courage to plunge into darkness.
I still can’t explain why
a morning ghost
moon makes me want
to believe in mystery’s propulsion
over city lights.
Trying to Get Lost in Kenwood
At the corner of Thomas
and Upton—a crossing that wasn’t
supposed to happen—she walks under the right canopy
of trees. A layer of fear shed, it leaves
no mark on the sidewalk.
Some spills are meant to remain
invisible to everything but the slightest breeze.
Loring Park Daily
A commotion of geese flaps across
this paved way to go in circles
through my front yard I share
with anyone willing to show up. My struggle
to take off is my refusal
to drop the weight of every moment
but this one. This one
could be my soar. Could.
Rhymes with Guile
To be remembered for this. She’ll accept the evaporation
of all other details in buckling concrete.
Tree roots need somewhere to go. The downturn
confused with a bow arched toward rooftop wild
flowers—it’s taken
a lifetime to learn to let these curves
cradle what they may.
From the Ground Up (Day 2,744)
Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
Suspension Feeding
When she disappears
into the atmosphere, will you
remember the shape her mouth was in
when she last said
your name, when she stepped back
from that kiss? A poet skirts
in and around surfaces
seeking a place to attach herself to.
It’s a barnacle
life—she’s always preferred the underside
of piers.
Another Pronunciation
Saudade isn’t saudade
if it is satisfied. When she least expects it,
other dreams come
into focus under the lights. Dust
of desire becomes frenzied
particles she won’t try to collect. She’s reaching
over the fence with its crumbling limestone
foundation to touch another’s—
carefully stacked against the wrought-iron grille.
She won’t see
the Atlantic tomorrow,
but she’ll get very close.
Obvious
Inspiration in the spit
laden air, in the sequence
of events from lake to balcony
to converted house to nailing down
these recalcitrant emotions
with a red hammer
(yes, it must be red).
I’m no butterfly
catcher, am afraid
to pin down wings
gently with my thumb.
I still need to let them fly
off to endanger you
to my vulnerable side.
And They Called It Ash
A writer loves
trees. This is the irony—how
we all come to love
our victims in the end.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 