If I could
print you
a new hand
to hold
mine, I would
still walk alone
up this hill. You would
rescue a baby
squirrel falling
from bare branches,
and the day
would become salvage.
Month: April 2014
Netting
From the street,
she sees a hammock affixed
to some bare
elms in a city
park. A how to live
in urban green before
it greens. Bad
poetry never makes good
architecture. Good
architecture makes good
poetry if
the intentional flaw
doesn’t compromise
the structure. She wonders
how tight
those knots are tied.
Entrain
The invisible
line between
walking and running
talking and singing
touching and pressuring
scent and stench
breeze and gust
sleeping and dying
to live is
lift off.
Reading Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing in a Bar
In Lagos, Portugal.
She thought she was so
adult to be
drinking alone
with Ms. Sarton
still alive in a foreign country.
28 years ago
this August, she hasn’t been
back. No longer goes
to bars with or without
May. There was a bartender
in that story—but not this poem.
Cure for Cruel April 9th
Here is
my note to self
to remember to soar
just a little more gracefully
each day.
Risking Behavior
Dare to
schedule a massage,
board a train
headed east, look
up while passing beneath
a balcony, remember
who she hitchhiked with
the last time
she did it—dared
to be
so young, that is.
Prince Sings
Sometimes it snows
in April. Sometimes
it’s too soon
for any new
life to begin. Better
before anything stirs. Better
to be an addendum
to winter than a mutation
to spring.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 