I walk with two
surrealist Charlies
into a forest
that casts shadows
of ruined buildings
under delirious
moonlight
one holds a pen
the other a shovel
I sprinkle crumbling
viola petals
at their feet
and pluck stars
from the sky
to see their faces
when I return
to the city green
Yesterday’s rain
was an invitation.
Today’s slaps me
in the face.
Too tired
from sleeping
too long
to go outside.
Mood is
an unwieldy beast—
always volatile,
never endangered.
I let it
escape, uncollared,
through a hole
in the chainlink fence.
Prologue
This story arrives
on the back of a coyote
seen running through the woods
near where we used to swim.
This story contains
no words, only the texture
of fur and tracks on dirt
and debris
from howls
that got tangled up
in a pack
of whispers.
A picture book
unfolds before us:
This is no folktale,
no myth, no picaresque
anecdote, nothing but a rogue
silhouette cast in stone.
Then a muted crumbling
of crunchy architecture.
Epilogue
Her personal alarm
pierces the man’s pride.
A lone song dog
without a territory,
he opens his mouth.
The quiet rings
false across his lips.
A vegetarian for 35 years,
he would gag
on her promises
if she let him
get that close.
Tributary
named after a lake
named after a girl
strong coffee in a glass
vessel after beer tapped
from a wooden cask
cold rain at night
after a wintry mix all day
the beat of a drum
filtered through leaky
headphones after all that silence
on the other side
of a retaining wall
Tomorrow I will be
a full deck of cards.
I prefer only 8s.
No faces
face up or
face down.
Jokers don’t count
except when weeds
become wild
flowers on honeymoon.
I still pick up
my feet
when I walk—run
mile after mile
timing my way
into the moment
when time floats
off. When everything
before folds into
everything to come.
When endorphins
kick in
at any age,
and lake ice
winks at
the sinking sun.
Inches on a dual scale ruler
splay awkwardly
compared to the centimeters’
compact grid.
So quiet in the cafe,
no eavesdropping
will mark the morning.
Just the sound of
fingertips slamming
MacBook keys, a page
being torn
from an actual notebook,
a ceramic mug gently returning
to the table. My thumb
measures 2 inches, just over
5 centimeters. I can’t decipher
the meaning
in that sliver
of well-worn skin.
Can’t decode
the evolution
of our differences.
The miles or kilometers
that separate our memories.
Those leap seconds
desperately applied
to align
our hearts.
run / hide / fight
the slow dance track plays
no one’s dancing
who remembers how
someone please
let’s build
a skyway to the moon
the weather between
here and there
can tire wings
bend fins
fray tails
someone please
turn off
the piped-in song
cut the bell’s tongue
someone please
let the buskers inside
we have a long way to go
let them sing
of views and the hand
that opens the cage
someone please
A light lilts over
wet roads, the grass
barely covered.
Slow moments,
fast ones, some
carving a channel between.
She doesn’t know which
she wants to set
the rhythm of her day.
It’s not just hers.
Not really hers at all. Gratitude
comes in shades of blue,
or is it green to gold.
Soon, so soon, too soon,
in the dark,
she can’t tell.
“The held breath of the world at 5 pm in winter.”
—Garth Risk Hallberg, City on Fire
She keeps her pockets empty.
Daylight is precious this time of year.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Driverless cars will give the unlicensed permission to feel.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Thick gloves interrupt her thoughts indoors.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The time has come to make room for winter.
She keeps her pockets empty.
A small bird chirps behind a tree trunk.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Everywhere else is too full the day after.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The wind slips through so easily.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The park reopens before dawn.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Some skylines regenerate like livers.
She keeps her pockets empty.
No kangaroo crosses her path or breaks her stride.
She keeps her pockets empty.
When an actor forgets his lines, she remembers how to scream.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Geocachers lose themselves inside a discovered letterbox.
She keeps her pockets empty
to make room for an exhale of visible breath.
what if
tonight’s full moon cracks
spills onto our tree branches
what if there is no moon
at all
ever again
what if an empty room
roars at double the decibels
of a packed music venue
and the voices
are all yours
what if what if
is eliminated
from our vocabulary
and the ?
becomes an earring
you lost years ago
all the answers
might tumble
off the shelf
when you open
the closet door
and the shape of hangers
will signify
our dismay
Check it out:
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 