If you can’t think
of anything, put the cap back
on. Don’t let it dry up
for good. To be
too poised is poison. That opening
in the woods
where you veered
off the path is the true
hinge to it. Don’t forget
to swing without occasion.
Month: March 2014
Clumsy Truth
When she spills
a cup
of tea
in the same
place at the same
time twice
in one week,
she knows
her body’s not
done yet. And
it may rain.
This Year’s Color
Radiant orchid
throughout each season—even now
when rain can’t quite
wash away the most hardened dirty
snow. Somewhere the temperature
drops just enough at night
before a warming settles in. Somewhere
someone sings,
“California Dreamin’”
to coax things along. Someone
somewhere is still searching
for a word that rhymes
with orange.
First Day
Freezing
fog come morning.
Then unbelievable
sunshine shakes the river and falls
awake.
My New England Roots
Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
Since Elevators
Who names their son
Otis? Since
the Beatles, who forgets
where to look
for the sun? Since Big
Star, who’s got it
worse than December
boys? Elevator
music gets this December
girl down.
Ice in Formation
It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs
over an outdoor
sconce. Week after
week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears
a recording of her own
voice and wonders who
might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.
Beyond Truro
Will she find
shelter for her words,
bed for her enjambment, a bath
for her stanzas. Not
a question–merely
a series of projections
to use
as stepping stones
to reach beyond
memories of rain
pounding on
a roof
to the rhythm
of failed love.
Blazing Darkness in Three Syllables
She will learn
how to locate her
own duende,
so she won’t
have to borrow
yours anymore. And now
she gets
home before dark.
And They Call It Pictionary
Corsages not corsets. Shawls
over the Venus
de Milo. Motel
not hotel. Architect over
poet. Defect without
sheepdogs or
a diaspora.
A clock,
a kite, or a barn. One
last busy signal
before the station
wagon rolls over another
gravel road off
the map. No one shouts
“caryatid”—even
when hitchhikers with 2x4s
return, mumbling,
“It’s just a game.”
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 