And so
as predicted
she becomes addicted
to all the drugs her body can
produce.
Day Poems
Riding Through
Row and rows
of Indiana
corn was my first
real poem. According
to someone
who should know. Did she
really know
what I meant?
Did I? I did—
the ruts from banana
seat bicycle
tires remain.
Day 4,004 Odyssey
Her journey
beyond his
predicting the world
will end breaks
down moments
before she sees
a pigeon die
in the street. Before
Americana loses
its eighth
meaning. But not before
she gets to dance
away his blues
on a boulevard. Cut
down the middle,
she would never murder
rabbits in anyone’s
garden. And he can
respect that—even if
he owns a gun.
Aftermath
Whoever murders
jack-o-lanterns
who are you
supposed to be? Is that mask
removable or
were you born
mean? Nothing
scarier than
a question
save a clown.
Flatter
She remembers
birthdays upon
birthdays but not
what day it is. Faces
upon faces
but not
names. Mile splits
into splits into
splits but not
the distance
between heart
beats—just let it
not be
a straight line.
Tailgate
A subtitle is not
subtext is not
the answer
to any question. A name
emerges from an ash
pile, a bundle
of freshly snapped
branches, a line
from a song
her mother loved. What she loves
to hum in the back
seat of an old wood-paneled
station wagon has no
title, no hidden
meaning. Just a mix of raw
notes and floating
words only a young
imagination could concoct.
Now Won
Because she projects
the business
of living gets tangled
up. An obsession
with her own
shadow keeps
the door
to yesterday
locked shut. Is she
in or out? Here
or there? Left
or right? Plus
and minus,
she can’t call
time out.
24 Hours in Chicago
If she dreams
of a stranger,
does he become
more than someone
she nods at
on an El train
before noon?
The Loop
is stranger
than she remembered
last time—that heat
wave in October.
A loner
at peace. Bruises
she conceals
from herself
only ache
when she lies.
Lake Effect
What if
one of those 10,000
got lost—would it turn
up across town
tucked between
the circular one
and that snake? What drains
her tonight
will relieve
her some morning
down the road—a mysteriously
winding one. Could have been
stolen, could be returned
before dawn.
Of the Sixties
Love Potion
#9 and all that whipped
cream that didn’t melt
under those harsh
lights. How do you play
an album cover
live? Or cross
the street like one? Or lie
on a park bench
with a smile? She would invent
her own dance
and whistle to respond,
her own style
of window-shopping
through a rainy day.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 