Free fall—
a belly flop
onto carpet. No wheels
can rescue the traveler now
landing.
Afternoon Poems
On Clemens Road Again
Who offers
an app for saying
good-bye without
uttering a sound? Secrets
are sometimes so loud
she doesn’t pay
attention. Misses
the easy
ones. She understands
the hardened silence too well.
Clemens Road
I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost
state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left
will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.
When Tramps Attack
It could be a gnarled mess in springs,
or a revolt in the street. She refuses
to reveal what she will lean into. A bounce
gone awry or tricks that unravel—she mouths
the words: the difference is in the recoil.
Shoes
The what, where, when, why
of them. Protectors
from what? Blisters
when being broken in
as a newcomer
to the studio. Everyone gets to be
creative—fall in line, tap your shoed foot
to the music we know
plays in your head. Open-toed
or not, they collect
in a box beneath her desk.
Just in case. A pen and notepad—
the best kind
of just in case. She walks
miles along the river
in search of the one
word that will
set her free. A design of symbols
ready to be stepped on
to release the fruit.
Wiod
If she changes
the name, she believes
she can be transported
from the gated community
of this poem
into a field
of flowers
she’ll call
wild—not weeds
Wind Sock
No matter how
he bends, he doesn’t forget
to smile. I wonder
what you would think
of him—but you won’t tell
because you’re dead.
You wouldn’t dance—just nodded
your head. That lilt. The music
was what mattered most to you,
then nothing
but the bottle
beside your bed.
Then there was only one way
out of the ICU. No more
going in either direction
on a boulevard with car dealership
wind socks to draw you in.
Loopers
Hairless brown ones
drop from urban tree branches
to clutter the sidewalk
with warning signs. Nowhere
near the Jersey Shore,
memories fall harder
and evaporate to become
invisible sagas
no one wants
to repeat. I would give
anything to see that condensation
on bark again.
Loading Dock Lost
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Grounds
Hours before sipping iced raspberry
green tea (the color
of irresistible smiles), she walked
the trail leading out
of town. Began with listening to the first
song on the first album Uncle
Tupelo recorded. Twenty
years ago today, she was still
not here. She believes
in increments. Wonders what happened
to all the percolators. In this green
café, the view of the old CC
across the street zigzags
off the map.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 