On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
Afternoon Poems
Putting Together with Light
When I can’t recognize
the taste of my own
name on the tip
of this inherited tongue.
When water terrifies
but is the only way.
When light’s brilliance
before death
takes me by the hand.
When I’ve got no place
else to go,
the rhythm of you
remains—you
big ole’ muddy river.
Mid-October
And time to put away
the dresses, seal
windows shut, remember
my stupid hat and gloves
and the fastest route
through the largest skyway
network to a view
of the river
where grief can flow.
Go Back to Rockville
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
27 August 2012
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Marked
A life to dog-ear,
to return to the moment
without forgetting, to be
so alert
to the music inside
the lines, she asks
you politely, then breathless—
the begging begins.
Common Roots Day Dream
A sip of iced garden
mint chamomile tea
and she wants
to believe in more
than the dead
kit below her building
stoop, the fluid
filling her father’s lungs,
the beautiful five
o’clock shadow
framing your face. Mid-syllable,
she comes to. A trance-induced
dialogue snaps
shut. She blinks. Assesses
her surroundings
with fingertips cooled
by glass perspiration. Who
have I been talking to? She asks.
Who will answer? A murmur
behind a smile and she disappears
through the wall
becomes a door.
Beware Fair Cinquain
The swine
show will go on
despite threats of harsh flu.
But she prefers urban rabbits
in parks.
There Are No Wrong Pianos, Vic
Public pianos everywhere—
on the airport baggage
claim level, outside the convention
center entrance, inside the city
center second floor lobby. Where’s the one
to play in open air
in the park under an old elm
near the dandelion
fountain? Not there yet.
Aerial Myopic
From this perch high
above the traffic, she can see
you’ll never slow
down to make her
exit, to even read
the sign. Her number
is not your number. Her flirtation
with naming
tools—not yours. But
then again
she’s nearsighted. And you are
long distance.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 