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
Boston:
I loved you first,
no terror can break you.
Boston—where my parents first met—
prevails.
Grace. A chess game indoors
could have been outside in
spring snow if it was
a bigger place
with more pocket parks. But here
everything stays
insulated. A punk jabbing
at the inside mechanisms
of my mind. In a dream,
the old New York employer
has all but shutdown. An empire
of books gets streamlined. Everyone
has moved
on. Even those who haven’t
when I wake will be gone.
Twenty years ago when she thought she would live
forever, she tried to cut it
short. Twenty years later, she’s doing all she can
to preserve each daily miracle. Joy
Division was rattling in
her head: “She’s Lost Control.” Who knows what
the Roadhouse jukebox
was pumping out. It was Neil Young who awakened her
with a “Harvest Moon”
in April to a morning she didn’t know she would want
to know. Some dates are best
forgotten. She’s the lucky one who gets to remember the long play.
Somewhere someone
decided this is our
month. As if all
the told slant
truths might bloom
simultaneously in a city
garden bed. Everyone’s talking
about getting wisdom
teeth pulled
today. From some non-euphoric
recall, I see nothing
poetic about it
save the prescription
for codeine
I couldn’t afford
to get filled.
The morning’s unexcused
absence can lead to another,
then another, and
still another till
truncated days are
all we get. Our children’s
children will dream of civil
dawn the way we long
for a pristine shoreline, pine
forest, subway wall, guitar
riff. Saudade
for time of day
as much as for a place
or soul we never knew
renders us
human all over again.
Relief that she is not
attending the regional pest
management conference
here in town
is not enough.
Sipping black coffee
in a refurbished hotel lobby
four blocks
from her apartment
is not enough.
Scribbling another reminder
note on a Post-It
not to forget PJs,
business cards, mouth wash
could be. Checking
the progress of that snowstorm
hovering over Boston
every 15 minutes
not likely. Exhaling
absolutely without question.
Your secret
is safe
with me. You
are not
safe with more
secrets.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 