Two days into shrinking
night, photos get touch
screen silently taken
in the clouds. Who visits
the creation museum? A myth
is born. A 25-year-old
portrait painting comes alive
in a child’s arms. This rip
in the canvas
is an evolution.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Window Phasing
People watching
becomes an accidental
fixation with her own
reflection after dark.
Arena Solo
Blood absorbed
in the sand
could be
the first
stain of human
contact she can
bear to see. Running
into the open,
circumnavigating
an oval,
she realizes
she could
make room
to go
side by side.
Lake Effect
What if
one of those 10,000
got lost—would it turn
up across town
tucked between
the circular one
and that snake? What drains
her tonight
will relieve
her some morning
down the road—a mysteriously
winding one. Could have been
stolen, could be returned
before dawn.
Sensuous and Sensual Meet in a Dark Alley
Too distracted
to remember to mourn
the death
of romance
in her tale as told
by the most unreliable
narrator. Eyes
that see beyond
any field
of color
she might identify
with. Eyes
she can’t see past
to her next
step down
those flights
of stairs. Eyes
not vocal
chords or ears
this time around.
Night Fell
Slowly as a feather
drifting in luxury
down till it dropped
suddenly—a splat
of cobalt blue
inking the background
in all directions. That plane
taking off
from O’Hare
a week ago
really wasn’t gaining
altitude fast
enough, and I believed
for a moment
that my desire
to see you one more
time would kill
me for real. No near
miss. And then suddenly
it began
to climb,
and I realized
I would make it
back to Minnesota. Anywhere
you hang yourself
and survive
to tell the tale
is home.
Equinox Eve
The last day
of summer gets forgotten—
rafts and dinghies
already stored
in garage rafters
for winter. Some kids
starting their second
month of school. Some years
the leaves are already
turning—not this one.
Grieving the end
of nectarines and plums
over for weeks now. Memories
of swimming
in an ocean or lake or river or creek
in the heat fading
with a full harvest moon
that rose
three nights ago.
She missed it again—but not
the double rainbow that appeared
before a steady mist
accompanied yesterday’s civil
twilight. She won’t forget that.
12 Months
Just after midnight. Day
365. Just as time
closes the circle
tight, another one
in a parallel life
opens just a crack
to let in the light
of all the sunrises
my father did witness,
all the waves
he did hear crash
against all the shores
he claimed
with an intensity
in his eyes.
Just as I wonder
how I will see it rise
through a late August
storm, I remember
I could let go
of the immediate
future to breathe
more freely into this
slowed-down now.
I could address
my father directly,
and no one would care
if I believed
in spirits. And so
I do know
you are out there
whether I can see you
or not. This day
will break
as it will
no matter what.
In Six Days
The counting may stop,
the spinning through
a thousand seasons
in a day may
become a memory. Or,
it won’t. Who
can predict
how my feet
will move
on the island
at dawn.
In Medias Res
He broke the words
she thought she wanted
to court
him with. She speaks
in whispers
that vaporize
on contact. He took
the long way
around the park
at dusk
to see her
leaving. She does
not know
this could happen
to her again.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 