All those Gemini ex-
lovers—who can remember which one
was born today. December girls
and June boys don’t bring on
the song the way December boys
and September gurls do. Misspellings
on purpose. I forget
which one—they’re all X
now. Let the words and their dates
bounce.
A child could have been
conceived and born
in the time you’ve been
gone. A child was
conceived and born
in that exact span of days
decades ago—your eldest.
Somewhere there’s a recording
of you singing “Happy Birthday”
to her. And what better reminder
about the cycle of life. You gave me—
your third—the blessing
and curse of counting. Not enough
time has passed
for gratitude to outscore
grief. And yet today’s celebration
of my sister brings us closer
to evening the score.
Train, work, play,
power, of the cross,
radio, gas, TV,
recharging, weigh,
and other stops
to be made.
The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.
The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.
The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.
The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.
Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.
After 28 years, this day still knocks
the wind out of me.
More than a quarter
century. Just shy
of three decades. I look for you
in each fresh start.
Would you still accept
me after all the near misses and messes
I’ve gotten into? The slowly revolving
mop ups? Would you still
believe in being
a work in progress? Would you
give me another chance? I can hear
your voice as clearly as when
you were alive: Yes.
Her attempt to weld boxed
all of us in. Hinges that wouldn’t
swing in unison
when she wanted
to hide from the future
litany of failures. Mysterious
groin pull
but no limp. She walks on.
Her father didn’t make furniture,
didn’t have time
to collect tools. Inherited gold
apprentices with modern moves
and names. Could be it’s all
in her head.
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
How do you know
you are raising
a terrorist? Hate is
a four letter word
that leaves a permanent smear.
Love is
a four letter word
that can remove
even the most stubborn stain.
Swan boats
Arthur Fiedler
Logan Sumner Tunnel
The Phoenix Newbury Comics
Fenway
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 