Some days all I can feel is
my father’s handshake. Called a vise
grip by more than one old
beau. An addiction to finger exercises
he did while running
every morning. They kept my own
hands occupied
in the early weeks after quitting
those smokes
he hated viciously. And I still practice
them now that I have returned
to the road and to fight
back tears. No matter how many sets
I do, memories are all that’s left. And the way
they left his mind
too soon.
If I could
print you
a new hand
to hold
mine, I would
still walk alone
up this hill. You would
rescue a baby
squirrel falling
from bare branches,
and the day
would become salvage.
From the street,
she sees a hammock affixed
to some bare
elms in a city
park. A how to live
in urban green before
it greens. Bad
poetry never makes good
architecture. Good
architecture makes good
poetry if
the intentional flaw
doesn’t compromise
the structure. She wonders
how tight
those knots are tied.
In Lagos, Portugal.
She thought she was so
adult to be
drinking alone
with Ms. Sarton
still alive in a foreign country.
28 years ago
this August, she hasn’t been
back. No longer goes
to bars with or without
May. There was a bartender
in that story—but not this poem.
Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
Will she find
shelter for her words,
bed for her enjambment, a bath
for her stanzas. Not
a question–merely
a series of projections
to use
as stepping stones
to reach beyond
memories of rain
pounding on
a roof
to the rhythm
of failed love.
Fifty years. Before
my time—barely. I was born
into a country
in mourning. Would never
know an innocence
once claimed. Never
know a world without
that eternal flame. Would never
hear that voice, that particular brand
of Boston accent live.
Sixteen grief-stained days
shy of being able to say:
“I was there.”
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 