For this
chance to see gifts
everywhere I breathe.
Everything is poetry
today.
Month: November 2013
White Space
Time out
chairs in corners
of a widening room
beckon her to retrieve those lost
daydreams.
Slow Skim
Between the center two
in those chain
of lakes—a channel
becomes a fish
back with ice
floe scales fanning
and breathing
to an invisible
rhythm. Is it the wind
that whips across
unobstructed Calhoun
to get trapped
beneath the overpass?
Or, is it a boat
wake delayed
by suddenly plummeting
temperatures, eventually
rippling through? And
a quiet sloshing
against concrete embankments.
11 Years and Counting
This day
encapsulates
my endless gratitude
for each moment I get to live
sober.
26th & Lyndale Again
Dreams that open
vaults might release
phantom lovers
with guitars. Live
music gets played
in a bar
meant for only
one thing—living
to drink. And
she doesn’t
anymore—drink
that is. Rumor
of a nickname
for her
she doesn’t
recognize. VIP
status gets a seat
on a fireplace
hearth. Who
can remember
how their bodies
came to collide
in five
easy moves.
Was it
like this? Probably
not, but a fire
burning on a cold
November night
could dissolve
the need to know.
Runner’s High Cinquain
And so
as predicted
she becomes addicted
to all the drugs her body can
produce.
Window Phasing
People watching
becomes an accidental
fixation with her own
reflection after dark.
Riding Through
Row and rows
of Indiana
corn was my first
real poem. According
to someone
who should know. Did she
really know
what I meant?
Did I? I did—
the ruts from banana
seat bicycle
tires remain.
Day 4,004 Odyssey
Her journey
beyond his
predicting the world
will end breaks
down moments
before she sees
a pigeon die
in the street. Before
Americana loses
its eighth
meaning. But not before
she gets to dance
away his blues
on a boulevard. Cut
down the middle,
she would never murder
rabbits in anyone’s
garden. And he can
respect that—even if
he owns a gun.
Aftermath
Whoever murders
jack-o-lanterns
who are you
supposed to be? Is that mask
removable or
were you born
mean? Nothing
scarier than
a question
save a clown.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 