If it’s truly darkest
before the dawn and you are
on the other side waiting to be
born, I will not hang
my head low
these long nights. Will dig
a flashlight
out of a dumpster
to shine a beam
on the word
trust
before it’s too late.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Pore
She peels
an orange in the rain.
The scent remains
on her skin into civil
twilight. Her orange
raincoat fits perfectly
across her shoulders—winter
only seven days away. The color
of any aroma captures
her eye when she stands
still long enough to open
anything blocked.
Wonders
Reading done with mirrors
is a backwards art
I fear
learning. When self-reflection
becomes an obsession, it’s time
to stop
paying the electric bill. Time
to flip
all letters hanging in suspension.
Two Windows In
Dilated pupils as the sun sets,
I find my way
home by other means.
My parents met outside
an eye doctor’s office. I’m not looking
for it. Patterns can be broken
especially if
I don’t participate
in the first place. The last place
I would hide
in might be so cold.
March Loops
She slips through
a gum-cracking crowd
just in time
to shield her eyes
from a parade of ponchos
and cowls getting closer. Wants
to remember to open them
in time to find the perfect
tiny spoon for her diorama
existence of shrinking
days—expanding nights.
Snow Globe Shaken
If I don’t break
it en route home,
this mason jar
could become the first
glass image
I transform without
getting sand
in my eyes.
I Remember Vodka
Is it enter or exit
through the red door—I
forget. A tumbler stands
squat on that counter. It was that easy
to reach across
decades to discard those too vivid
memories. A high pitched voice ruins
this whole non-narrative
hymn. I crumble
on a stoop behind a threshold
wide enough for both ways.
Eleven Cubed
Whoever erased
all thoughts of him
from my head while I
slept last night
will become the new
mystery I expand
into an obsession
before snow falls
on another civil
twilight. Could be spitting
out toothpicks
for all I care.
Ordinary High Water Mark
This pink
sky before
twilight touches
a rim no one
sees. To awaken
to 11.11.11
tomorrow will be
her version
of so many
lines fluctuating
against one another.
You Said You Had Souls for Sale
I’ll take two—one
for tonight’s winding
down those final shafts
of light. One because
the first could crack
open like a skull
against a ladder. Could be stolen
in that half
hour before sunrise. Could just wear
out. An autumn blizzard
could barricade access. Or
it could be
an addiction
to that fearless insanity to look
a stranger in the eye. Do you make
home deliveries?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 