The last lift
she achieved
cannot prepare her
(or him)
for any elevation
gained or lost
the next
morning. Hot
or cold, tea
spilled at regular
intervals throughout
this next
day begins
to resemble a channel
not carved
by man (or woman).
Day Poems
July 27: 11 Months
Startled by the number 27
on my apartment door,
the nearest cross
street to an avenue
I used to live on. Where
did it factor
in your life
before it became
the day you died?
No reflexes can wake you
now, no tallies
too low, temperatures
too high. You used
to say time
was make believe,
manufactured to manage obsessions—
yours, mine, the rest
of the world’s. When light
rain placates a summer afternoon,
I wonder who
did the making and what
materials were used. You would
have known. Which mattered
most—the distance
you traveled or the moments
passed observed? You kept track
of both despite everything
because you knew
no other way to live.
Proud Cinquain
The truth—
diplomatic
delivery gets you
nowhere near humility’s true
timbre.
Lacrimatory Cinquain
Weeping
becomes her salve
addiction not to cure
her gift to you and all those gone
before
He Loved a Parade
A patriotism
I did not inherit. Along Asbury
Park’s Main Street
heading toward the shore—the last one
we watched together. Tears
came to his eyes when bagpipers marched
past in their wool kilts. Their drone
pipes in near perfect harmony. Fireworks
have frightened me since dodging
M-80s in the Paris metro
on Bastille Day,
then in the New York subway
every 4th of July
for years. I could never keep step
with a group. Always got the incurable urge
to cross the street
in the midst of it all
against the flow. But now
that he’ll watch no more
parades, a single bagpipe
opening wide those first notes
to “Amazing Grace”
is a freeze
tag tap I cannot ignore.
Who’s Really Got Bette Davis Eyes?
Today slate,
tomorrow lapis
lazuli, tonight
a batting between.
She’ll never see
the world through the eyes
of stars. A blue moon
would be her waltz
to summer night
swoons. And that’s new
wave enough.
Low Couture
She is a closet
dress maker. A model
for the people. A person—
she’s the one.
If She Reads Too Much
Into this
collision of events—
an anniversary and
an announcement.
An epitaph nodding
at a long dead
affair gets plastered
with a bill blasting
a live
threat. A reunion
of the soundtrack
that did her in. She could peel
it off—the stone would still
be cool. But these words
are not.
June 12: 22 Years Later
It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,
noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga
River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black
leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.
Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator
carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies
within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.
Track 8
“The Mississippi River, magnetic engines roar,
sad songs keep the devil away.”
—Jay Farrar (Son Volt, “Angel of the Blues”)
These songs
are homecomings.
One—“Angel of the Blues”—
returns me to the roots of true
saudade.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 