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.
Day Poems
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.
Sensuous and Sensual Meet in a Dark Alley
Too distracted
to remember to mourn
the death
of romance
in her tale as told
by the most unreliable
narrator. Eyes
that see beyond
any field
of color
she might identify
with. Eyes
she can’t see past
to her next
step down
those flights
of stairs. Eyes
not vocal
chords or ears
this time around.
The Sound of Two Memories Colliding
When he makes
love, he talks—he adores
those vocal chords. But
then subtitles
for the hearing
impaired could be a series
of grunts and snarls, doors
slamming shut—the official
language of last
century’s troubadour. And
those bites were as real
as the slap
in his face—all
while we held each
other’s hearts on mute.
To Cross the Path of an Albino Squirrel on Friday the 13th
To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
Lightning Won’t
Strike twice on
the same stage
in the same
heart to doom
the same
life all over
again. She only thinks
she recognizes
that dose
of thunder
as his.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 