To be
afraid to walk
on these icy sidewalks
is to freeze not just this life but
my soul.
Author: Arambler
Stranded Snapshot
Is this rain, or sleet, or miniature
hail—this life becomes
a wintry mix. No plot, no narrative, this is
continuous till
it ends. But it doesn’t stop
there. She slips on a Howard Ben Tré
sidewalk glass
eye and falls. Waiting
for a bruise to form
on her upper right
thigh, she seeks
comfort in the purchase
of a sky
blue button-down shirt.
On her way home, she walks slowly
around the offending
eye. Accumulation answers
the question no one really asked.
Relentless
Everything echoes
interruption from 5 ½ months
ago. Another trip
to an art museum
suspended. Piles
of new poems stacked
against a stucco
wall unblogged. All walks
come with a hollowed-out
hive halfway
through. If it’s a before
after scenario, this is
the in-progress video
that won’t end.
February’s Pedestrian Rant
A smart phone huddle
awakens that skyway
bridge between the bank
and liquor store. Disorientation
comes from peering
at street level. Wine
tasting is on
another night.
“Take a break
from Face
Book to face
the forgotten beauty
of a real book.”
Where did I
read that?
Day 212 (When I Am Home)
I am New England dirt,
the taste of beets out back.
I am not brownstone—
not urban by birth. I am
still in quarry depth,
the scent of cars rusting beneath.
I am not ocher—not red
iron ore impure. I am sipping
fresh water from a claw-foot tub
turned spring, overflowing
to Bone Lake at dusk
and warm. But I am not
the moon to be collected.
I am not forty jokes memorized—
not working a room,
timing accent and plot. I am
ready to mark this laughter
the colors of a flower bed
against brick. I am the line
drawn purple—blues and reds
of a road map
preparing to fold everything
I am
(except magnetic north) in place.
Addiction Cinquain
Brother
lost into night
has not gone far enough
to want to be discovered lost—
brother.
Weather Whispers
Not gonna be about
death. Not gonna
be about addiction. Not
gonna be
about the river, ice, wind
chill, water main
breaks. If I say
it’s about the red
wheelbarrow, or a dare
to eat a peach, or
mermaids singer, or
heaven forbid moths
laughing—well, we’re all
thieves in here anyway.
Heavy Metal Detox
These are not
tears. A wind
chill emotion erupts
without warning. Who
leaves their dog
outside a café
on a day like today?
Two-inch thick
ice will last
longer than many
relationships.
As I peel
on and off
layers of peace,
another January
gets sealed
shut. Another recipe
scrolls down
the side of a wall
outside a venue
that sells
no food. And these words
will not
be sung indoors.
Spider Taste Bud Dance Steps
Begins with
no hidden driveways
for the unlicensed. Then no
skylights in skyways
to confuse this weather. And no
more nowhere
without a degree
of separation from
omnipresent becomes
another verb. But some parts
of the tongue
are just
flavor blind.
Five Months
Half the Sunday
paper on Saturday.
I would leave the business
section folded, unread
for him. All that caution—
still he preferred
The Wall Street Journal. Grilled
salmon with his secret
marinade sauce
in the years
I ate fish. It always came down
to The Run or The Walk—
capital T, capital R, or
capital T, capital W.
The Asbury Park
boardwalk. Trails
in South Mountain Reservation.
The Delaware
and Raritan
Canal State Park.
The Mississippi
riverfront overlooking
Saint Anthony Falls.
The Kinsale
Old Head before
it became a golf course.
From those Kokomo
rural routes to
a nursing home hallway,
so many other roads, trails,
paths, passageways
to his life. If I could begin
today, how many days,
months, years would it take
to map it all? If I can recall
a path a day, I might
make a little bit of progress
the way he wished.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 