Don’t just
open them,
raise the blinds
is slang
for find your scene
in a painted shoebox.
Or antique suitcase
before wheels
rolled over
every effort to be
real. Gesso
and stencils
and rounded corners.
If only
I could see
a tiny door
swing open
outside my window
onto an eddy
of unknown origin.
With a spectacular
view of
a spiral staircase
modeled after
the wrought iron one
in the Trinity College
Long Room
without the competition
for attention
from a dramatic barrel
vaulted ceiling
or 200,000 old books
exuding that delicious
vanilla aroma from
disintegrating lignin.
Perhaps it could
have been
constructed from
a nautilus shell.
Sprites streak
coded messages high
in the sky
by nightfall.
Back on the ground,
it’s time to draw the curtains
in a celebration of red.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Speech Therapist for the Angels
For Sheri
As we recall her in unison,
I hear her mocking herself
for the way she said
“button.” I mock myself
for trying too hard
to out-walk
my shadow. She’s been gone
so long, so much longer
than she was alive.
Dimming flashbacks to our secrets
remain safe within me.
How the angels do sing
through their stutters and lisps
to thank her
for being one of them.
You Tacky Thing
All heroes leak. Blood
and spit don’t mix too well
with both eyes closed.
Pay attention,
but don’t get too close.
Not all flaws
are tragic. Not all
flaws twinkle with light
that reflects off
an ocean’s
blindside. Not all
heteronyms stick.
Tear your dress
and wait
for the drawbridge to rise.
April Ransom Note
I choose this
morning, this cold, this sun, this empty
room, faulty light fixture, interior wall without
art, this last word
affixed to a kite tail
not unwound, not dusted off, or dragged
through the cellar door up the red stairs yet.
A last word
that bargains for scraps
of wood from a broken fence and bare vine stems
to escape traces of the not literally, but lyrically,
cruel.
Stations
1. weigh
2. polling
3. train
4. filling
5. space
6. police
7. bus
8. first aid
9. fire
10. subway
11. work
12. TV
13. weather
14. way
And the radio played without station or stanza break deep into another Friday night at the end of March.
Grime Written
I will not use
elephant snot
to remove
the truth seeping
into our concrete
facades. I will not
scratch my way
into your heart.
Won’t turn
“Wash me”
into a mission
statement. I’m not
on a mission
after all.
That can’t be
my voice I hear
narrating this
poem prose poem
preamble. That’s not
the man
I pretend to hide
from when
another hot air
balloon crashes
against a sea wall.
And Martha Graham
dances to the end
of a branch
in this sketch.
52
Tomorrow I will be
a full deck of cards.
I prefer only 8s.
No faces
face up or
face down.
Jokers don’t count
except when weeds
become wild
flowers on honeymoon.
I still pick up
my feet
when I walk—run
mile after mile
timing my way
into the moment
when time floats
off. When everything
before folds into
everything to come.
When endorphins
kick in
at any age,
and lake ice
winks at
the sinking sun.
Lining Inside
“The held breath of the world at 5 pm in winter.”
—Garth Risk Hallberg, City on Fire
She keeps her pockets empty.
Daylight is precious this time of year.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Driverless cars will give the unlicensed permission to feel.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Thick gloves interrupt her thoughts indoors.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The time has come to make room for winter.
She keeps her pockets empty.
A small bird chirps behind a tree trunk.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Everywhere else is too full the day after.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The wind slips through so easily.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The park reopens before dawn.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Some skylines regenerate like livers.
She keeps her pockets empty.
No kangaroo crosses her path or breaks her stride.
She keeps her pockets empty.
When an actor forgets his lines, she remembers how to scream.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Geocachers lose themselves inside a discovered letterbox.
She keeps her pockets empty
to make room for an exhale of visible breath.
Escalator Guts
Exposed.
A garbage kiosk
blocks the lower landing.
It’s a long way down. Hardened
debris won’t cushion
the fall. The metallic taste
of words she spits out
lingers on the roof of her
A mannequin in men’s
activewear impersonates
one eighth of an octopus—
the left arm unhinged
and dangling
from a blue checked
jersey sleeve,
extra long.
No beak, no spin, no ink,
no sea, no reason
to trust anything
as it seems. A drawn curtain
means keep out
or keep in.
Not an invitation
to slither through.
Silence coils
a tight spring
under her breath
into an empty lift
she uses to unload
her fear
of continuous loops
and fire escapes.
I Go To
a dark place
with all the lights out
the death of dictionaries
leaves me empty
afraid to speak
more afraid not to
a dark place
where Steely Dan plays
on the radio
and I’m too numb
to change
the station
who listens
to the radio anymore
who listens
for the train
that already disappeared
down a tunnel
darker than the dark
I go to
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 