When he says he wants
to take you
for granted, don’t wait
to take off.
Cinco de Mayo festivals
don’t always fall
on the 5th. When they do,
it’s time to take
our names seriously—or
at least find
an urban maypole
dance to join.
Day Poems
Knock Three Times
A case of grinding
teeth as if
to shout out:
“I’m still alive!”
A strained ankle
for no reason—could be
misspelled. Those whispers
could mean it’s time to play
dead or to move
farther down river
before the quiet descends again.
Eraser Dust
A chalkboard to record the names
of childhood heroes. It would be better
if they could rhyme. It would be better
if they could be segregated
from the ones accumulated
later in life. No relatives. No future
lovers. No dead people—although
there’s one rule I might choose to break
over the sound of that ceaseless clapping.
It
Is all that’s left
of the Let It Be Records sign.
She’ll walk on shoulders
of highways—the ones singers warn
might not be too safe. He’ll go back
to Rockville
when all’s said
and done. CT not MD. She can’t go back
to a town
that was never hers. Saudade
can’t be measured
in miles or years left abandoned on corners.
A Natural Hollow in the Ash
Is where she leaves
her messages. There was a to him
till there wasn’t.
She can’t write
away the ache of witnessing
a parent slowly evaporate
on life’s bark
while still being here. Only a temporary
empty, she’ll be retrieved—
dents banged out,
recycled, refilled.
Then she’ll rest in those concave
curves and remember the name
he gave her might mean Ash.
Ten that Almost Got Away
1. I realize I’m the only one
wearing a hat on the walk to work.
2. Finally find the $100 math error
in a fee proposal.
3. Wonder about green
roofs in strong winds.
4. Wait for a pedestrian
foothold in rush hour traffic.
5. I drift through skyways
with everything on mute.
6. Don’t buy a banana
that’s too yellow.
7. Contemplate the green
banana that never ripened.
8. Notice cufflinks
on sleeves for the first time.
9. I’m relieved to be
ring free.
10. Ready to go home.
Turn to Respond
Poised to take on
another breathing
spell, I brush someone
else’s powdered
sugar off the orange
table. If I ran
into him now
in this rain, who
would ignore whom
first? Offer umbrella
shelter—a cheek
to kiss? He used to curse
me for answering
my own questions. Who’s
left? I am, I say.
Move Scenario
She’s going to write another
poem about how she almost
moved
to Georgia. And she’ll use
move
at least two more times
before finding relief
for a blistered left
thumb. This burn—an accident.
An embarrassment.
An encounter
with a flat
iron nothing like the wedge
of a building where her former
self began.
Then the move
back
to Connecticut, then the big one
to Minneapolis—not Athens.
One music town
or another
moves
ahead. A northern girl
in the end—so far.
Stands Over Friday the Thirteenth
She walks the long way
around building façade
restoration scaffolding.
In this wind and light
rain, weather is no longer
superstition. Weather is
serendipity. When libraries become
verbs, new subjects will appear and succumb
to a state of being
searchable. And she’ll brush
the leftover syllables
into the gutter
for another Friday.
Hard Return
A disembodied voice
goes silent
while the body flees
to another scene. Another season
to test out microphones
for the soul. No one calls
for the ombudsman
in this crowd. Every form
and structure gets
a say. What gets
heard is news
for another night.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 