This spill onto pavers
beneath the bridge beside the river
is her reminder—there are other things
worth fearing
more than an errant fish
hook, a fast woman walking
and expecting past you, even this
sting on scraped knee and toe.
Forgetting how to laugh would be one worthy.
Rain to bring on the heat, beer
to jump start a government
shut down. I could disappear
behind this digital self
portrait that turned out too dark.
Could take another
image to protect myself
from those gray areas—but I like
this shadow kissing my cheek.
Government shuts down,
mercury goes up,
power goes out,
everyone goes into
their non-virtual silos
of thought. Now more than ever—poetry
and its unbreakable circuits.
Sweat is sweeter
when following these lines.
Shakes my hand
for choosing to walk
right past that survival
sign. No longer a tobacco
stained talker, I just smile
my way toward prevailing bluffs.
without jumping through smoke
rings to find a trap
door you hint may lead
to solace. I imagine dropping
into a room filled with easy
breathing naked apes. I like my air
not so conditioned, like
to check those back
burners to ensure the pilot
light hasn’t died
with a summer breeze
that got too big
to ignore. Dizzy with oxygen,
I remember that boy who smashed
his fist through a glass pane
in our French door—so desperate
to escape 1969 bedroom
community ennui. One bloody wrist, a siren,
and that blue
cold stillness in his eyes. Now I could
just laugh
at these green candles
someone might ignite
if they want to.
If she plants the seeds
blended into the pulp
of that message I sent
ground, what
sprouts will be fewer syllables,
less energy spent
on transit. A garden poem
for those who prefer theirs
not so defined—simply Sweet
William Pinks, Rocket
Larkspur, Wallflower, Catchfly,
Five Spot,
English Daisy, Sweet
Alyssum, Lemon Mist, Spurned
Snapdragon, Blue
Flax, Black-
Eyed Susan.
Another city, another black
bird soars over pedestrian
heads. I have one. The least
unease matures into full-on anxiety
about what clouds
won’t hold. I’m not afraid
to fly but do fear those
with the will
to—agents flying, flew, have flown.
It’s been a year—I wouldn’t turn
to stone or tin
if I ran into you on the sidewalk
in the shadow
of your tower. That we haven’t crossed
paths since we decided to cross
each other off
the list is a sign. Our lanes
weren’t meant to merge
on any slope—slippery or not.
Expectations for the long arm
of light to cradle her—better
yet jolt her—into a wider frame
can only lead to one thing:
disillusionment
that after tonight everything begins
to shrink. Or, there’s another one: relief
that summer is poised to stretch across
the best spills and spans.
Birthdays are present
tense even when the honoree is past
tense. In a year’s time,
I will surpass him in living
years. It’s a lie
that we can’t catch up
to, surpass, one another. I make
no predictions. Stand still could be
a quality of light
or shade of blue. I can see
only glare—no faces reflected
in the atrium wall, could be
a window if
you’re into that kind of thing.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 