the way her empathy flows
in elongated shadows in any light
to envy the waves
or particulate mix
of charismatic morning dew
is too crass
even for me
even the ancient Pando
in all its trembling
massive root system glory
would trust her approach
it’s really just one system after all
those crooked pines
in the crooked forest
would straighten up to greet her
this left hand relaxes
into the hinted presence of such awe
she watches the woman water
potted plants on the stoop
in the pouring rain
an indoor ghost garden leaves traces
on the ceiling / an enclosed atrium
aches for its missing awe
a preserved moss wall
in any color merely represents
never reveals the true river
will it stop / it doesn’t stop
Lola on the Lake from burning
to the ground / Tin Fish phantom
from another wet spring
a bite grabbed / he brought the dog
one more walk around the lake
some histories too burdened with slag
are not worth rescuing
from the flood
For Sheri
As we recall her in unison,
I hear her mocking herself
for the way she said
“button.” I mock myself
for trying too hard
to out-walk
my shadow. She’s been gone
so long, so much longer
than she was alive.
Dimming flashbacks to our secrets
remain safe within me.
How the angels do sing
through their stutters and lisps
to thank her
for being one of them.
he will know when
she finds relief
stops blaming
the sky
stands beneath
his favorite ash
and laughs
at the sight
of all
those carvings
exposing them
she knows now
trees prefer
a gentle touch
without risk
of tattoo
Illegible scrawl creates a collision
on a freakishly cold, rainy morning
in mid-May.
She wears a knit cap. Tree pollen
ruins her for anyone
who crosses this crooked line.
Nothing against those blooming
northern pin oaks. Misery clears
an unwanted swath
through an urban forest
of steet signs and boulevard droops.
How did she get from tree
lawn to boulevard? By way of berm
to hellstrip to swale to snow shelf
on the verge of bursting forth
along a line of maidenhair trees,
dewy green blades might reply.
Extreme weather cleaves another
station where she might have met you
during a calmer time.
A crawler reaches for the sky
so that vegetables with dirt on them
might take us the rest of the way.
In this version, she retreats
from guitar strums,
the plaintive crack
of a worn voice,
to write a letter
to her 27-year-old self:
How many babies won’t you have?
How long will you stay
in one place?
A voice in some messier version
gives her permission
to let the questions dangle
precariously from her lower lip.
Whispers from another river
elevate her view
of all that high water danger.
She wants to release it
to a more natural shape and flow.
Another version
will emerge truer
with more nuanced
section cuts
in an even darker ink,
if she can wait
just a little longer.
she keeps coming to you
in a dream fog
to show you where
the streetcars used to run
around a sharp bend
the hill so much steeper
in the slumbering mind
you know she’s wrong
you remember those tracks
mapping a different route
on another street / neither of you
alive when buses replaced trams
in another city
in another state
in another dream
you ride the Rapid
downtown / it will remain
the Terminal Tower
in your mind / dare you say heart / she nods when you laugh at yourself
all the protesting
may have been valid
but the crooked river
is slowly being set free
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 