A child could have been
conceived and born
in the time you’ve been
gone. A child was
conceived and born
in that exact span of days
decades ago—your eldest.
Somewhere there’s a recording
of you singing “Happy Birthday”
to her. And what better reminder
about the cycle of life. You gave me—
your third—the blessing
and curse of counting. Not enough
time has passed
for gratitude to outscore
grief. And yet today’s celebration
of my sister brings us closer
to evening the score.
Train, work, play,
power, of the cross,
radio, gas, TV,
recharging, weigh,
and other stops
to be made.
The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.
The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.
The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.
The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.
Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.
Seeing the city
park dandelion
fountain fanning
and splaying
water again,
I remember
not all death
is permanent.
There was meeting you. And younger
brothers—real
and imaginary. My first close encounter
with the third eye of a stormy
near collapse. No time for window-shopping.
A blur, and I would be back. In the midst
of it, I didn’t know that yet. You
would die before I got so dirty
in the gritty City
I couldn’t escape
a never-ending love affair
not even moving would break. And
I didn’t get to tell you about it
when you were alive, so how about now?
Once upon a time,
a 13-year-old girl emerged
from Penn Station,
and so it begins.
After 28 years, this day still knocks
the wind out of me.
More than a quarter
century. Just shy
of three decades. I look for you
in each fresh start.
Would you still accept
me after all the near misses and messes
I’ve gotten into? The slowly revolving
mop ups? Would you still
believe in being
a work in progress? Would you
give me another chance? I can hear
your voice as clearly as when
you were alive: Yes.
Her attempt to weld boxed
all of us in. Hinges that wouldn’t
swing in unison
when she wanted
to hide from the future
litany of failures. Mysterious
groin pull
but no limp. She walks on.
Her father didn’t make furniture,
didn’t have time
to collect tools. Inherited gold
apprentices with modern moves
and names. Could be it’s all
in her head.
A red door
in a basement
is someone’s memory
of her father. Removed
from the must
and toad populated
puddles beneath
the stair, it still hinges
on a human hand
to be moving.
Danish teak
furniture had nothing
to do with it.
A cold spell snaps
into the first
heat wave
of the season. Which season?
An approach
by air
rather than
by sea
could open
those island gates
she has been eyeing
for as long
as she has been walking
without a crutch.
In a dream not that long ago,
he celebrated
a rare
moment being
anonymous by sitting next
to me—
close. But I knew. Thighs
touching just as I remember
they did
once or twice or thrice before—closer.
In some nonlinear fantasy narrative—
closest.
The writer retires.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 