Counting
days since you died
maps a steady rhythm
to follow as I breathe through this
dense grief.
Day Poems
Howdhecatchem
You say let’s celebrate
Columbo—not
Columbus—Day. I’ll dirty
my trench coat
for you. I could be a detective
the way I’ve perfected the stalk
without disturbing
anyone, especially the dead. I yell
at those people
who climb on the red metal
sculpture in a public garden.
It’s not a slide. I’m no grave
digger. Archaeologist—never. Who
gets to say what’s sacred or how
to achieve closure? It’s time to give
those bones a rest.
Minnesota Deuce
Twenty years into this
relocation west
of the Mississippi, I will
become the original
version of Another
Girl, Another Planet.
Just for today, no
cover. And maybe tonight.
And perhaps the next
full moon lighting
up the river’s only
natural falls.
Go Back to Rockville
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
Or Save It for Later
It’s the 21st century—these poems must
dance, conduct
a four-string quartet, transmit tiny
3D images of a pixelated
soul. They must move
the way they’ve always had to.
Bridge
For MJN crossing beneath,
for NYC connecting across,
for The Brooklyn Bridge rescue working destiny
Advance your vantage
point, collapse
your facade of steel,
your gutted concrete floor.
Collide your bridge maker
with mine, collage your hand over mouth
with my eyes shut,
vocal chords in strangulation—
a scream
a void
to coalesce to convalesce
on one promenade
of material unidentifiable yet.
Coordinate the crossing—
bare feet
dust
ash caked faces
no veil could protect,
suits meaningless, ties undone
till they become arms swaying.
A human chain
of events. A human
behavior changing—
never
no way
when
now.
They designed bridges
to be passageways.
Make them good
to get no further
than this. It is still where it has been,
the destination stands
between these pedestrian elevating towers
still here.
Last Blue Moon
She divides her days into
before and after
he died.
Into with and without. Into
physical and spiritual.
She believes
in god in phases
of the moon’s breaking
open to become sliced
beams of light. A blue one
puts him to rest.
Ten Days In
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
27 August 2012
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
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 just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 