A big, bold-faced metal paper
clip causes a bump
in her writing. It affixes
a lost father’s
face to a daughter’s
daily desire to become attached
to just the right
image. A reminder—like the callus
on her left
middle finger. Not a gesture
of defiance, but a gentle nod
to left-handed beauty
and respect. And a big black
bird scrapes the sky overhead.
Fear is the only four letter word
I need to say
to be free. Another season begins
to break
without him. A patch of sidewalk
ice melts
into a small lake, freezes again
overnight. Spring
can’t get any traction. Somewhere
an empty suitcase, an empty raincoat,
an empty tomb. Don’t forget (a parent
or sister might say)
to snap
a mental picture
of those ocean waves breaking
open another calm
after a late winter storm.
This one isn’t talking
into his cell—
he’s just talking
to himself. The first day
of spring and a Caution—
Falling Ice sign
still stands outside
the crime lab. Notable
wind chill and not a blade
of grass to be seen
anywhere outdoors. Inside
the skyway linked
towers, little plots
sprout everywhere.
I have become a double
shot espresso to make
the transition from afternoon
to evening smooth. To become civil
twilight burning full
force through
late winter urges
me onward. March’s
sooty snow be damned.
Plastic hotel room
key cards—two of them—left
in her purse. Everything
express, everything
virtual. Where does reality
slide in and out
to open ourselves
to the image of a framed
painting of a woman
who holds a chain—silver
plated—from which her idea
of home dangles? In suspension,
her slender arms wind horizontally
as a marionette
from another era. It is another era
where photorealistic pictures
with paint thick as a thief’s
rubber sole hang in the balance.
Who said woodpecker? How
will its shock-absorbency
system inspire me
to become my own
resource? An observation
made without an “I”
could be the most beautiful
hard-headedness of all.
All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
café reek
of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference
of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
empty one
is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?
Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.
Yet now
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.
Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.
A stranger asks
if this is all
I want to do
with my life—be
a synonym
or antonym. I know the art
of silence, how to resist
a reply, how to avert
the eyes. I know how
to make anyone
walk away. Know
the loneliness
of a skyway
on a Sunday
afternoon. Exhaust
hues get bundled
into a string
of knotted pearls
a woman might wear
one evening
too easily ruined
by a broken
traffic light
in just fallen snow.
The girl who walks
alone to school, to the library,
home pogo-sticks
in her street
on snow
days before
Easter. A newborn
and marriage unraveling
inside, no one notices
her absence. Still
hasn’t begun
to swear or stop
believing.
To be
afraid to walk
on these icy sidewalks
is to freeze not just this life but
my soul.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 