Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
Day Poems
Urban Element (Day 2,727)
You make my hair curl
around a yearning
for a straighter path. Deep beneath
the streets you go
to rescue these roots
from those utilities. The rinse is never
final. Four men in suits cross over
without looking
in both our directions. They don’t
believe in rain. You aren’t to be believed—
weather becomes an emotion
under your care.
Exposure Closure
To cash in
a past, pick
a year—1992,
better yet 1991—
would be too easy.
I’m done being
easy. Narratives
wrap around words
compressed. A loose loop
of letters with clear beginning,
middle,
end would be a legible expose
yourself delivery
method. But
it’s what gets packed in
so tightly—one lover’s lip
smashed against another’s ear.
Turns out, boys tell secrets too.
Day 2,703
Some days she’s not willing
to dig deep
below a scratched surface
truth. Some days she just wants
to see her
reflection crack
and walk on. Some
other days that become nights
she would rather go
blind than acknowledge
the visions trapping
her heart inside an under river
tunnel. This could be
one of those.
Poetry Reading at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe, Sat., April 3
Amy Nash will be reading her poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm. The address and website are:
Fireroast Mountain Cafe
3800 37th Avenue South
Minneapolis, MN 55406
www.fireroastmountaincafe.com
An Exhaling Introvert
Counts backwards
till she can’t breathe. She pretends
a message will appear
at zero
on a screen addressed to her
from you. A different kind
of marring,
you’ll be asking for it.
Hard on the lips,
her pressure increases
as your resistance
goes down. Exaltation.
Staged and Charged Up (Day 2,669)
No photos ever of me
in Brooklyn. Some in Queens—
an Astoria fourplex with unfinished
hardwood floors. Manhattan all over beginning
inside the helm of the Flat Iron.
The Bronx north of 232nd Street indoors
and out. Even one on Staten Island before
dashing across the Verrazano Narrows
Bridge. Where did they go? I know
they were taken
by the tiny broken locks
in my soul.
But I can’t end
on that—I’ll be the one
stealing, not having earned
the right to mention it—
the soul that is.
Poetry Reading on April 3rd at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe
I will be reading some of my poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm. For directions, check out their website: http://www.fireroastmountaincafe.com/
aka (Day 2,649)
She thinks she hears
a confident blues
guitar play across
the alley. Or,
she may have just read
a caption to a movie—
it’s come down to subtitling
her own language again.
E-missive (Day 2,646)
Without sound, how
do I know
what you mean
when you write
the letter K, when
you sign off with a see
you later? How
much later? I can’t see
your face—but you
never did give away much
with your eyes. Only
the tone holding
up or forcing down
the timbre in your voice
could begin to reveal
what I wish to know.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 