To panic about ice
yet to form, comments yet
to be made, technology
yet to break down,
a Coleridge poem printed
and not read
is to be most afraid
of how serendipity dances
across pavers—
cracked or not.
Afternoon Poems
Doused
A V of black
birds moves across
the sky, the bus
is late again. Her stomach
aches from testing
all those body mist
testers—one scent
is too much
for her. Any bird alone
must be lost
she thinks. When she wants
to hide, she goes
to sleep. Figments find her
face up ready
to receive an aroma
therapy of dreams.
Sole Cinquain
I see
urban hermits
amidst slow-moving crowds
who do not speak of loneliness
exposed.
Experience, Strength & Hope
This is the bed
you refuse to make
to prove you’re clean.
The gathering
of personalities
within the self
may be enough.
To hear the same
story told on the same
holiday each year
is nothing
to be thankful for. Nothing
against the narrator, but
it’s time for other
chroniclers gone awry
to take a turn.
Lake Street Again
Missed JFK
by 16 days, wish I could miss
that condescending sales pitch spilling out
of the guy at the table
next to mine in this independent coffee
bar. “Tell you what.” I choose
to be here in the middle
of an afternoon I have free. What is that
anyway? Structure
in a world post assassinations
and towers collapsing, in a world
where I witness car crashes
that could have been worse.
What is justifiable
fear? Pharmaceuticals
and a November sun
beams in. Lake Street busy but not
like I remember it when I lived
above the cobbler’s
and you were still alive.
Unbreakable
A perfect sketch
of a porch rocker
drawn with one
continuous line will be
my inspiration
for this lyric
as it comes to its single
complete stop
Small Stone
Some hot October
afternoon she leaves
you as abruptly as she rediscovered
your appeal. Death
doesn’t placate those of us
in the heat or near miss
lovers under any shape
moon.
Coach
To be seamless
is not a goal. I’ve got to see
how you stitched together memories
and faces and the name plates
stuck in the dirt next to those blue
flowers. Got to taste
the same kind of apple you would bite
into when we met over the lunch
period. Would dream
of the scent you gave off
when you brushed against me
after school. Top of the ninth
and your mood would be riding on that boy
on the mound—mine affixed
to you by some kind of metal
pins and rawhide twine.
The Dead Can’t Hurt
No longer in the run around, she traipses
across an invisible line
between mentor
and visitor, room
and mask, smile
and lie, tears
and truth, lover
and ghost. A new
preoccupation might not be so kind.
Yearbook: A Found Poem
“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best
between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her
even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick
in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg
drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long
for the artless construction
of your face.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 