Another 27th day hits
the way heat slaps
my face when I leave
an air-conditioned
shell. He would have walked
in it—no matter
what. I mention an MIT cap
and ring to a young architect
who knows
the Institute well. He says
as much as it changes
it remains the same. My father
faced change,
loved the same.
A super moon rises a day after
trees came down and a quarter of the city
was left powerless. Before
you were gone
from not just your body
but your mind, you would have counted
on that extra full
lunar event to anchor us
a little more securely
to life. Before and after.
The longest
day of the year collapses
into darkness
hours too early. Another bout
of extreme
weather rumbles
through—tears trees
from their roots
like a cat
shedding for summer. Power
lost, flash
flooding drowns
the whimsy
of solstice
ceremonies. Dances
over the river
cannot stop it
from spilling over too far.
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.
Prairie vodka—a beverage
I will never taste. Made in Minnesota.
Property tax—a phrase
I’ll never utter
in Minnesota
or anywhere else. Show tune—
a collection of verses
I will never
memorize. I see rhinoceros—
a warping I will never stop
laughing over.
Organic drunk—
an oxymoron I still remember
how to translate.
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.
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
I must revise
my opinion of you. Beautiful—
not terrifying. Tiny and fast and
docile and determined. The calmness
of the Colorado River and Lady Bird
Lake settles as the sun sets.
And we in the boat wait
for you
with your long fingers
and clinging wings to wake. Much chirping
and preparing in the roost before you
emerge from under the Congress
Avenue Bridge to swarm
above the tree line—a 25-mile trek
each way for your nightly
feeding. I must revise.
While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
Swan boats
Arthur Fiedler
Logan Sumner Tunnel
The Phoenix Newbury Comics
Fenway
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 