I’m no longer
a Manhattan with rye,
the suit with one sugar cube, or
the skirt
garnished with a cherry. I’m no longer
eligible to mix
it up on the East Coast. But
visits taken black
filled to the brim
still carry me home.
Day Poems
Homesick for Major Deegan Exit 11
Digital monsters
with moustaches, power
outlets in the café
floor, the names
we never got
right—that door
ought to be
locked. Or, then, not
at all. Why did this
way get invented
if no one is
allowed to go
this way? That
would be called
the last
exits to exist.
When Corlear Avenue Was Home
No recipes for Pinterest. No nails
for the resurrection
of Washington
Avenue. It’s really a boulevard
without the reach
of Broadway. I remember
the way I lived
in the Bronx. That elevated #1
line dropped shadows,
then hints, of the plains
I might choose to cross
before decades erased
my interest
in pins and collage.
Shakes
When a building gets braided
before the roof settles, who can
predict how high
the electric fence
will need to be. And she’s come to
under the wire
often enough to care.
Each measure is always longer
than it sounds.
A Debt That Lasts
A lifetime, a generation
without Neil Young
to thank. A gratitude
expressed in color
rather than words, a dictionary
left open to the page
where trust gets its due,
truth comes alive.
Landlock
When red
umbrellas bleed
in a late winter rain, all the girls
she used to be
parade down streets
in their yellow slickers and fisherman’s
sou’westers. And who she is
now follows behind
with a tin pail to capture
her favorite
colors before they run
into the gutter.
366
A garden competition to see
who grows
more perennials ends
in a tie. Contiguous means more
to some. To direct
pedestrians around
a pillar without collision
is my definition. Always
a little extra left
over at the end
where those slate
steps fall off.
A Proofread Life Has No Action Verbs
The fog in my head
is not the one
in yours
that won’t clear. When
there’s nothing left
to hoard, a crack
in the marble will run
the length of the promenade
till it splits open—
a seam of unused words
packed in the foundation
like worms.
Notches on a Dictionary
I see one in a window and wonder
if they get stale
if left open and untouched
for too long. Half moon gaps
for two or three
letters at a time keep
the surface crisp. Cannot predict
how long before
someone notices the page
she ripped out to make a place
mat for breakfast
guests she won’t invite.
Lipstick on a Mirror
I would say
five nice things
about the person
sitting across
from me. But
there’s no one
there. A loud room
can get lonely
too. Sometimes the chalk
board is her
only friend—
that 48-year-old
woman who
isn’t there.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 