An archaeological dig
through her future
losses reveals
more sand than clay
in the ground
she will cover. Sharper
tools made of bone
and hair exhibit
the demise of demure
flirtations. She will not fool
around. No heroes
will get in her way.
Lignin samples under
fingernails expose
an addiction to bark
and escape by climbing.
Will she chase
or be chased?
That nearby ghost
forest supports speculation
she will swim before she crawls.
Day Poems
October Here to There in Six Easy Steps
1.
She digs through the closet
in search of that bag
filled with stupid knit
hats and gloves. Sooner
and sooner trespasses with ice
and wind and snow.
2.
The experiment fails
on the old Iron Range.
Where are those damn mittens?
Before it’s too late,
come down
to your senses.
3.
Steal this plot
instead. Dance on
CBGB’s grave. Recite
a poem on the other side
of the Bowery, or in the alley
that tells no secrets.
4.
Use your imagination.
5.
The rhythm will follow—
down a sidewalk grate,
land on top of a subway train
heading to Brooklyn,
become unrecognizable
when it resurfaces
6.
in Coney Island.
It will ask itself:
How did I get here?
You will answer:
All beats lead to a beach
on an island no longer an island in fall.
Full Scaley
If she could print
a durable lover
whose limbs wouldn’t snap off
during the vacuuming stage.
And a little boathouse
where he could rest at night.
And a custom runabout
for early morning wakeboarding.
If, then
she would print
his kisses in burnished colors
to match the October sky.
With Broad Nails & Broken Homes
When I say bevel
my corners,
I mean those places
where I go
to break
from the tyranny
of worshipping parallel
lines. My love
of trains
and sidewalks
may outlast all others.
I thrive
on nonsense.
Feed me at daybreak
more than you can
import in a month.
I will be starved
for more before another blood
memory snaps
all the tree branches
and crashes on
the roof at noon.
The drinking
glass I smashed
last night
will heal by evening
if you want. If I want,
I go to one
of those corners
and search
for exposed edges
to my heart
to file down. Any
woodworking tool will do.
True or False Bugs in Little Summer & Other Tales of Incomplete Metamorphosis
Not gonna be about holy rollers
going at it outside a tavern
on a Sunday morning.
Not gonna try to define this 24 hour
heatwave in October
after a killing frost
saying that other thing
Not gonna capture one image
of a late season lady
beetle on the fence
with a thousand words
Not gonna measure
a life’s worth
with a sounding line or hug.
Not gonna say never say never.
Not gonna say never forget
having already forgotten why.
Gonna rest
on this buoy
for a spell.
Instead of Zed
when an F-hole
might have been confused
with an S descending
near the end
of happiness
before minor key
tunes played on a fiddle
got recorded or written down
after the U
in colour fell
on an uncleared trail
in the Berkshires
and the O and R refused
to rescue it
during Noah Webster’s lifetime
and I will never forget
those walks inside
the Grove Street Cemetery
will always wonder
what story antedates the mystery
of A Mother’s Grave
Unconditional
if he dies in the same hospital
where he was born
if she hollers
next stop the morgue
if no one dares move
images between stanzas
if stairs bend out or in
not spiral up or down
if the leaves
never turn
if your vertigo
spills onto hers
if my thirst lasts longer
than her walk across a swing bridge
if Monday morning swindles
Saturday night
if velvet and hook
never meet let alone mate
if smog surrounds a motel
in early October
if there was no word if
then would be a lonely widow
who never turns the page
Within Walking Distance of 52nd & Lex
Invisible or forgotten.
Not both.
To slip through a moving crowd
on a New York City sidewalk unrecognized,
without falling through a subway grate.
To walk past a construction site
without a glance, let alone cat call,
directed her way.
To ask Siri a simple question
and get no reply.
Or, to go whole weeks
without a single text, email, Facebook message,
phone call to reply to.
To discover he really did leave
to catch the last ferry
without her.
To be given a choice,
she keeps slipping through,
dodging ironwork lattices.
It’s not a cool breeze,
but a steamy, cloying one after all.
Inertia
a box full of springs
a barren field
breath visible in cold air
a long crooked trail through a forest
overlooking an ocean
a notebook left on a table
in an outdoor cafe
its blank pages flapping in the wind
the first red leaf dangling from an oak
the dot on a lowercase i
rolling under the couch
stale bread crumbs scattered on the floor
a whole basket of glyphs
covered with a gingham cloth napkin
anything that gets caught in a sink drain
centrifugal force and other myths
wrapped around a rock
tied to a string
before the spinning begins
what’s left when it stops
You Are the Second Person
to ask:
Who are you
writing about?
All of you,
especially you
over there,
but not you.
I will never forget
the girl who screamed
from the front pew
in a crowded church:
My socks are wet!
The exclamation bounced
around the walls
and high ceiling
till it landed
on an old lady’s
tulle-covered hat.
I swear it wasn’t me.
Was it you?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 