Temp drops
a natural spritz
darkens the sidewalk. Hail
pounds down
crops. Buzz
used to be
the sound of bees—but
where are they, where
are we now?
Afternoon Poems
Another French Cold Press (or Bastille Day)
When she can’t remember what
she wrote
down yesterday, or
last night. When the lyrics
to an old favorite
taste funny
in her mouth. When
she turns left
instead of right to encounter
a street she hasn’t explored
in decades. Gets on a train
and gets off
in a town
she’s never heard of. And
the week feels eight
days long. And the quiet
in her head
alarms her. Then she turns
up the volume
to expose
a new silence
and words almost lost.
Cold Press or Bust
The truth
about the bumbershoot. Without
an accent. Rain
won’t fall yet. Another Cessna
Citation will land before
it does. Just one more thumbprint
and the walls
will be done.
Proud Cinquain
The truth—
diplomatic
delivery gets you
nowhere near humility’s true
timbre.
Lacrimatory Cinquain
Weeping
becomes her salve
addiction not to cure
her gift to you and all those gone
before
He Loved a Parade
A patriotism
I did not inherit. Along Asbury
Park’s Main Street
heading toward the shore—the last one
we watched together. Tears
came to his eyes when bagpipers marched
past in their wool kilts. Their drone
pipes in near perfect harmony. Fireworks
have frightened me since dodging
M-80s in the Paris metro
on Bastille Day,
then in the New York subway
every 4th of July
for years. I could never keep step
with a group. Always got the incurable urge
to cross the street
in the midst of it all
against the flow. But now
that he’ll watch no more
parades, a single bagpipe
opening wide those first notes
to “Amazing Grace”
is a freeze
tag tap I cannot ignore.
Who’s Really Got Bette Davis Eyes?
Today slate,
tomorrow lapis
lazuli, tonight
a batting between.
She’ll never see
the world through the eyes
of stars. A blue moon
would be her waltz
to summer night
swoons. And that’s new
wave enough.
June 12: 22 Years Later
It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,
noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga
River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black
leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.
Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator
carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies
within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.
Compression
The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.
The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.
The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.
The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.
Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.
Reincarnate
Seeing the city
park dandelion
fountain fanning
and splaying
water again,
I remember
not all death
is permanent.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 