Even getting to Q
would be more
than she imagined. More than
she could taste
when she licks
stamps for those envelopes
filled with naïve
dreams. Some evaporate
for good without a trace. Others
come true
for a while before turning
into nightmares. And some
hold other positions
in the alphabet
she can’t make out yet.
For this
chance to see gifts
everywhere I breathe.
Everything is poetry
today.
Time out
chairs in corners
of a widening room
beckon her to retrieve those lost
daydreams.
This day
encapsulates
my endless gratitude
for each moment I get to live
sober.
And so
as predicted
she becomes addicted
to all the drugs her body can
produce.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 