The last word
appears suddenly, strikes
like lightning
without any thunder
no matter
how long I count.
Author: Arambler
One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
Rain on the First Day of December
A cold apartment
is a cold apartment
regardless. If
the boiler
that generates heat
within is broken,
the answer
is not to smash
potted plants
onto the sidewalk. It’s not
the stoop’s fault.
Three Months
The labor of breathing
without gasping
through these hollowed-out
days. The fear
of never being able
to recite the Serenity Prayer
again because of the way
the throat closes shut
before “grant me”
can escape. Just one more
bear hug, one more laugh
over lost cookies, one more
email exchange, just one
more hand squeezing, one
more simultaneous gazing
at the same full moon
while standing thousands of miles
apart, one more walk
side by side
would not be enough.
I surrender to this
grief and put my trust
in the wind still blowing
from those resilient wings.
Death’s got nothing
on them.
Sagittarius
A lull toward late
fall, messages arrive
scrambled. Those born
on the light shrinking side
of winter solstice
carry an extra
burden. We must generate
an expanding light
from within. And it just might
illuminate the shoreline
for those of us now walking
the boards in the afterlife.
Before I Got Lost in Lakewood Cemetery
Inside the most exquisite
mausoleum ever built
this side
of the Mississippi,
a door to the sunken
garden slams shut
without help
from human or wind.
As I admire the rose
onyx floor with my fingertips
and follow the wedge
of light to its source
(perfectly angled skylight)
above, I wonder if
ghosts monitor
both descents and ascents.
Impression of the Upper Part
A thumbprint
is something to behold
until it is all
you are. Head, shoulders,
widening tie. Identity over
unity, you cannot fathom second
person plural, can no longer tell
the difference between
a swirl and recoil.
To the Lighthouse and the Jersey Shore
Less than a month to prepare
for a stretch
of 960 moments
that have lost
their luminescence.
I pick up
a flashlight and laugh
at the minor beam
I try to control. Dream
of a lighthouse
freed of its hurricane
ravaged land guiding me
to a place where he’ll be
walking on reconstructed boards
to the rhythm of the tide,
beckoning me
to catch up to him.
Four More Years Please Cinquain
On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
Two Months
Counting
days since you died
maps a steady rhythm
to follow as I breathe through this
dense grief.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 