Do you say aeon or eon
or æon—how to merge
the “a” with the “e” with the hand.
It’s not the building
but what I see from the building
that pauses me
to wipe the clock.
Afternoon Poems
Who Is This Pedestrian
Because she hates to see questions
in writing, I invert
my queries into rhetorical
curves. Because she was told
never to use because, I defy
some Ohio law. Because
he refuses to believe
in prepositions piling up
on over themselves, I watch
language wreck itself
from the passenger window.
And I refuse to be so definite
as to be the driver. I act on a passive
tendency to walk on—don’t I?
Johnny Nolan Died: A Found Poem
Three days later. Can’t sing anymore.
An uncle’s ashes scattered
from the Statue of Liberty. Nightmares
in daylight, cross out drunk—
write down sick. Expected rescue
does not come. Nothing
is wasted in this world—is a lie. A lump
of cold damp earth
in her hand. To the edge, she closes
her eyes, opens her hand. Thin
tinkle of a mandolin makes
a sad sound. Not from the common
cup—not Johnny.
Note: Contains phrases found or inspired by Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
News of Her Daughter
And how do you know this text
message is just for you? Viral
newsletter, false sense
of value, hope in a reconnection
smashed against LED flashes
of recognition—you are not
the only one. Nothing personal.
Nothing to take at all.
Sleep Demigods
If I am everyone
in this dream, who are you
to tell me how
it should end? The use
is mine—and disuse. You are
a figment trapped
in a smoke ring
I rarely produced. You are
the one my unconscious
heart won’t forget.
Winter afternoon naps
are the best. Caged trees
in snow banks stand
for a patience
I’m still learning to wake into.
Three Weeks
I am a new habit.
It’s Friday, and someone always expires
on a Friday. Old habits die
hard. Otherwise, they would be soft
inclinations not worth
overcoming. This pattern
language needs
no more words.
South 13th
Each time I look down
that street it’s another U-Haul
truck that captures my eye
for minimal detail. Dead
of winter, dead center
of the block, this month—
someone gets up and moves
away. Or it’s someone else moving
in. The weave tightens
around messages that near
miss home.
Absent of Choking
You once said if I didn’t smell
like smoke I would smell
like sex. Now that the air has cleared,
I just want to smell
fresh coffee brewing
come morning, an old book fanning
open in the afternoon, traditional Tibetan
incense burning come evening,
rosewater splashed on my face
before I sleep.
Linger Lost and Found
This is the first time
I get to see an engine
leave Fire Station #1. A one
alarmer. No more drags
and still I can’t extinguish
those flames swooning
in my head. No smoke
billows out—all in my head.
Out of nowhere the scent
from that bonfire I started
almost twenty years gets retrapped
in nostril cross hairs—stories to be retold.
Quod Vide
That same queen
size mattress I saw
yesterday propped up
against a snow bank could be
the reassurance
I need to battle those
cream of wheat air bubbles
trapped in the ice I see
beneath my feet today. Could
just be someone else’s
New Year’s resolution.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 