I weep
each time I hear
my favorite Beatle
who has been gone too long—we don’t
forget.
Day Poems
November 22, 1963: Where Were You?
Fifty years. Before
my time—barely. I was born
into a country
in mourning. Would never
know an innocence
once claimed. Never
know a world without
that eternal flame. Would never
hear that voice, that particular brand
of Boston accent live.
Sixteen grief-stained days
shy of being able to say:
“I was there.”
February 14
The date
rings a bell
in her head. That pattern
of flowers spilled on the street was
heart-shaped.
Toughened or Tempered
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Odds Are
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Weather Extreme Cinquain
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
All My Favorite Photos of You
for Sheri
Gone. Did the New York Subway #1
train pickpocket keep
them? I shouldn’t have kept them
all in my wallet. I wanted
some—any—scrap left
of you with me
at all times. You had been
gone only a little
over a year. I should have paced
myself. I was too young
and naïve to understand the infinite
nature of your absence. You understood
limits and functions
so much better
than I ever could. And
the symbol
for infinity could be
a pattern we used to scrape out
with our skates
on the Thornton Park Ice Rink.
Smokefree Cinquain
Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
Fifty Below
Super
cold Monday comes
to strip away layers
to reach the core of what truly
matters.
Winter Reds
Problems
with skin and boots
and the lights flicker off—
on again like below zero
sunshine.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 