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.
Day Poems
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.
June 1st
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.
Nine Months
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.
Stanza
Train, work, play,
power, of the cross,
radio, gas, TV,
recharging, weigh,
and other stops
to be made.
Compression
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.
May 20, 2013
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 