Night collapses
into day—the ferry
is free. A frame
for this lake
sky after a May frost
would cost more
than all the gold
in a guardian angel’s halo,
could not capture
the moment I choose
to turn fully around.
Afternoon Poems
Metropolitan Seething
I am urban
wildlife found in grain elevator
yards abandoned
then reclaimed. I emerge
from sewers with pride.
I’m not afraid
of you. Fly at you
on crowded sidewalks. Swim
beneath barges, sleep in the hollow
of your stoop. Nest
in your overhang. I am
no different from you.
In the Literary Commons
Words read upside
down, written
at an angle, the floor vibrates
when people pass by. Sticks
for the wobbly
table—that one’s mine.
I will use
any excuse to be this
shaken without visible calamity.
Reflecting Pool: A Cinquain
To be
farther along
this lilac scented lane
is better than further into
mirrors.
Record Store Day
What’s left of her
independence could be lost
on those leaves budding
too early
to be in tune. Survival
of the opportunistic—the fittest
in a fancy new suit. Who
would wear a dress,
a tie, to a basement
house party where the pipes
might be about to burst? This leather
jacket has no secrets to hide
yet. Will there be time? Tornadoes
can’t destroy the true wall
where faces and signatures
are faint but there, if
you study the brick
long enough and in the right light.
Wellington Place
After all these years, all
you have said, you’re still
afraid
of him. He has only a few
words left. They won’t hurt. Rarely did.
It was the ones
he threw at those around you.
To be so privileged
can be a burden. In his weakened
state, new hip just beginning to settle
into the mechanism that is
what’s left
of his life, why
this fear? Yes,
you’re losing him
the way we all lose
one another. There are no guarantees,
no ultimate reprieves. This is a slow burn
singe around your original
edges. No way comes without terror.
Whose? Yours? His?
All of those others?
With the spoken
language disintegrated,
what’s left is this raw
love. You must look it
in the eye. Don’t turn
your head off his
steady gaze. Remember,
who he is.
It Says No Judgment Day
Volcanic ash washes
over Europe. The Internet comes
crashing around
our ankles. I smell a generator
run off
at the mouth. And my jaw
aches for a bearing
down closer to where
you might have placed
your tongue
for a measure.
No So Long—No Good-bye
This date cannot take me away
from you the way
I almost succeeded in making it
work for me years ago. Got it wrong.
The clouds won’t break
this afternoon. Learning
to walk again, you can rest
your eyes in this patch
of gray. I may escape on foot
for a moment. I will return
to the day breathing
in relief—a sculpture
breaks free of its artist’s grip.
I’m a step outside
Rodin’s Caryatid. I’m climbing
outside someone else’s
imagination working on a dream
where no one has to say
anything. Let those words he says
will never die expire.
Buds
They’re breaking through.
It feels early. I feel late
to wake to the songs
everyone else hums.
I am overripe
to the ones I replay
because addiction is nothing
if not relentless
repetition. Will the lyric
alter slightly with this listening
to make it all about me?
If I can recover
from the need to be
your you, perhaps you
will relent—give one
up for me.
Say the Word—Hotel
Hungover without
a drink, journals
are meant to be written—
not read. Why does she
keep them? Why toss them
out? She could donate them
to a sculptor
who might rehab their pages
into fiber and matter
for a piece
of public art. Would the characters
she described, reconstituted, dreamed
up
back then want
their say in the replacement
of their sketchy heads,
insubstantial torsos, free
floating feet, even sketchier
souls. Would they? Would
the new artist listen,
understand, care?
Doubtful. He would be
listening to his own
noise—not theirs, not hers.
She always relinquishes
her power, struggles
with steps to the greater
powerlessness.
It’s been years since she visited
the bonfire behind the old hotel,
since she was willing
to sacrifice a hero, or two,
for the sake
of someone’s sanity. Plain
garden variety walks on
solid ground. She’d be lying
if she denied
there were any new ones
to release into the communal
burn. Then again,
they are never
really hers to offer.
And she’s no hero, so no
self-sacrifice will
do. She keeps walking
down this steep hill
humming a tune
she thinks she made up.
You and I know she didn’t.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 