The trigger
point may be
centimeters (or miles)
lower than he thinks. It may
be so much
higher, so much
in your head.
Day Poems
12 Months
Just after midnight. Day
365. Just as time
closes the circle
tight, another one
in a parallel life
opens just a crack
to let in the light
of all the sunrises
my father did witness,
all the waves
he did hear crash
against all the shores
he claimed
with an intensity
in his eyes.
Just as I wonder
how I will see it rise
through a late August
storm, I remember
I could let go
of the immediate
future to breathe
more freely into this
slowed-down now.
I could address
my father directly,
and no one would care
if I believed
in spirits. And so
I do know
you are out there
whether I can see you
or not. This day
will break
as it will
no matter what.
Wish Serendipity
She accidentally drops
a penny
into a plastic cup
filled with water.
Aiming for the tip
jar, how did she miss?
Whose water—
now magical
or polluted? No one
notices. She decides
on magic,
and it would be
peace for you, Dad.
Sandy Hook Light
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s…
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Come full circle
is not complete
without the last five
days. Can I keep
the pace of grief
steady? Sequential
dreaming is overrated. Change
the setting, change
the internal
dialogue and all the reed
instruments collected
in one long
narrow room. Corridor
songs round their notes
best without cracking them.
Or Bluff
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).
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 