when it’s too cold
to snow
or wait for the bus
she walks
with purpose
along a city sidewalk
into a tall building
up a back staircase
through a skyway
to nowhere
reinventing what it means
to arrive
Day Poems
Paradoxical Sleep (or, What the Living Statue Sees in Himself)
Black squirrels, albino squirrels,
skunks, raccoons, no fish
infest walls, ceilings,
crawl spaces, window wells.
The marsh bleeds in. Whorls
from rushes sprout suddenly,
dangerously as a rogue
eyelash that gets stuck
on the surface. This is
no Cocteau film. This is
my dream to star in.
I’m no star. I’ll be
your Planet 9
for real this time.
I’ll give you a wide berth.
Just let me exert gravity
over some frozen volatiles.
Just give me time
to make it all the way
around in the dark.
No one has seen me
with or without you.
I won’t be demoted
this time. It’s been so long since
I ate meat,
I can’t remember what you did
with the knives.
No Tessitura
I can do that?
Become who he will be
before his father’s voice changes
for the better. Without question.
He wants to believe stars
look different when
dandelion clocks fuel
the bonfire rather than
punk or other tinder
before tinder was Tinder.
Become who I am
in a Kokomo family room
when Ziggy sings on TV.
I was an alien
in my own backyard.
The words won’t come.
Ziggy dances,
but someone else plays
guitar. I play piano
left-handed. Become who he is
when he became a she.
I can do that?
She has the deepest voice
in school. The boys
haven’t cracked yet.
She sings left-handed.
We keep time
by the leaving seeds.
and the tangerine does
spit in my eye
as I skin it alive
and it does sting
and I do finish
the murderous peel
and it does taste tangy
sweet the way
I never did dream
you would be
Ride to the End of the Last Stroke
I want nothing
more than to be
writing another poem
on a train
as it tunnels through
January fog. Who
knew the impression
could cloak
so well. Who knows
where my bare shoulders
will reappear, or when.
Then the fonts—
so physical, so metallic—
will leak precious
angel spit.
Torn Calendar
Tomorrow’s Five Years Sonnet
I know what I’ll write
tomorrow when the numbers align
with my heart
and lungs.
I don’t know
what to say
about today
in between
the gasp and relief,
freezing rain and fog,
headlights and reflection
of legs propelling
everything we are
forward tomorrow.
Today’s Cinquain: Five Years
Smoke free
today. I won’t
light a Cuban cigar
in Havana next month just cuz
I can.
Brood
I remember the number
three and the hill
I drew to depict
life beyond the lagoon.
I remember the three
swings and the starfish
we killed trying
to rescue it.
Turns out they split
in half, transform
from girl to boy to girl again
without our help.
Even then, I knew
to feel guilty
about catching an extra
whiff of gasoline
in the old shingled garage.
Even then, I was
beginning to forget why.
Not Before or During
silence does not lie
the way words
on the page or screen
may lie
a little more
each reading
each day
truth comes
after you drop
the phone
into that snowbank
Rattle
Arrive on the coattails
of a stranger.
Leave on the wings
of a crane.
Be the thermal
that gives the greatest
lift. Disappear into the folds
of the wind’s
invisible cloak. Be
the voice heard,
not seen.
One O’Clock and a Long Way from the Dandelions
Today, I will be
a groundhog, tomorrow
a gray wolf. Another day,
my fingers will wrap
around the cup
that contains all
the saltwater anyone living
or dead can remember.
On that day, I will forget
to fear the church bells
that ring across the snow-covered
lake in this city park.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 