All exits are emergency
escapes from moments
that have died.
Write tiny epitaphs
for each and be accused
of living in the past. Without
them there would be
no future. The time has come
to forgive
our younger selves.
Author: Arambler
Emerging Exit
Zippers, buckles, snaps. Buttons
are boring. Based on this,
she prepares her fingers
for the nimble dream.
I Feel Therefore I Am
More than a freshly cut
bundle, more than a bonfire
burning in a field
across the highway, I am
all emotion: no bones,
tendons, skin left.
Everything touches
the raw side—ecstatic
tears, smiles
through grief. I can’t
tell the difference
between my own
laughter, sobs,
orgasms. It’s all
release,
it’s all that’s left,
it’s all I’ve ever been.
Hook
The alarms are as false
as the ladders and boots are
true to form. She prepares
to leave, doesn’t want sleep
disruption on this last night
before an angel appears—some people
go to church—she goes
straight to the source.
Figure
Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.
Will
Don’t you want me
to dance on your grave?
These ashes could soothe
more than feet—could be
those dead man’s clothes
are yours now.
Pons
Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless
over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved
the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost
is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted
with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors
to escape from the message:
not to be false.
The Best Thing To Do
To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath
is a risk
to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief
and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.
No More Delivery
On farmer’s market
day, she helps the blind
man find his time
to cross. The colors
of a vegetable stand meld
into one kaleidoscope
wish—to do
these things without
announcing them
as some addict’s letter
to the world. This is not
what Emily meant.
October Grief
Dust in a machine,
overheated thoughts trigger
emergency shutdowns. Zigzag
is not a place. This is
the only place
where rain comes in threads
that won’t dissolve
the glue she uses
to hold what’s left
of her together.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 