Long white to black strand
of hair trapped in the hinge
of an airplane tray
table in its upright
position. Back on
land, crickets don’t use
their legs to chirp. They use
their wings. I have none, I hear
nothing over this city din.
Day Poems
Poised
She won’t say
a word to break
the spell
of bewilderment
she’s waited
so patiently
to be
under. Rarely
does she want
to cast her own.
Another Friend Who Misses Her Dad
Her quiet presence
looms long
and lean—a shadow
cast nearing civil
twilight. Forty years
since she’s stood
before or beside
me, and still
I remember her
long hair the color
of unground coffee
beans. Her bangs. The fresh
laundered scent
she would leave behind
as she rode off on
her banana seat
bicycle through those wooded trails
behind our row
of houses. Some whispers
echo longer
into silver brilliance
than any shrill yelp
of a peacock at large.
The 17th
Bodies falls
from the sky, fingers
point, half-written
stories burn, no duende
has a chance
to spark with death
already landed.
Knocks
The interrupting
cow doesn’t eat
meat or drink
milk or mean
to be so rude.
Thoreau Said It
“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.
Summer Solstice Cinquain
Opens
early to light
to spread it out longer
than any other—bleeding to
the night.
Our Trespasses
Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns
the land. Who
owns you—precious
liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s
an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop
you up—but
I won’t buy.
Devil’s Bridge Shoal
Clay on their faces—
naked gestures
before jumping
off those cliffs
into the wild
wash. It’s not
over till our giant
returns for his rock
collection and pipe.
Cracking Up
Oceans rise
by twelve feet
by when. How to buy
time and use it
to buy more. Who
is selling those years,
months, days, hours. Minutes
available on eBay
to the highest
bidder. Too late. Childhood
memories of a shoreline
cottage won’t wash away
with its stoop. Is it really
too late?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 