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.
Day Poems
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.
Handed
To confuse push
and pull is to break
stride in the midst
of an internal debate. Just as I
still mix
up left and right. A sly
rub over the callous
on my writing hand
index finger confirms
this is
left, not right. If I stop
writing, I’ll be lost.
Library Coffee
Drops of blood
from an orange awaken
her to choosing. She occupies
the end table because
it’s open. Clean glass
window walls corner
her to be
free to search
an after five
sky. Her findings
will be cataloged
off site.
But One of the Seven Wonders
Won’t be lit up
with LED lights
after civil twilight dies
another daily death. Tomorrow’s
reincarnation won’t be
so famous if Crash
has his way. And we all do
when we speak
the repurposed truth
at the mouth
of some river
or bottom of a canyon
no one remembered
to name.
Not One of the Seven Deadly
I would not drive
on the tracks, would
not question the bottle
of French deodorant or bathroom
caulking if asked. If not,
I would leave it
to winter saints
to return the red
dagger signs.
Speaker Less Easy
These legs ache
from the act of hauling
the memory
of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley
dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe
in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness
as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon
as you heard it
in an age before reuse.
No Bus to Abilene
Welcome to your usual
table by the window, to a few
stories behind the Soo Line
clock on the corner. Welcome
back diamond-shaped
laughter without a live
audience. The flowers
you ordered for your mother
should arrive in time
to whisper one more welcome
before walking through
another open door.
This Is Proof
She can count
to infinity, or
as long as she lives
to write. Poems
are tallies in a growing series
of figure eights. Notches
in the leg
of a wooden desk—
here’s where
it gets locked
in. Little deaths
and tremendous sighs
of relief
when another one clicks.
Seen Through Fog
There’s a story behind
Staten Island Ferry
orange. I can’t tell
it but can hear its tone
revealed in a soothing voice-
over through early morning fog.
Routine commuting becomes heightened
by the transcendent
moments before
the marathon begins
on the Verrazano
Narrows Bridge. By a skyline
permanently scarred, by a keel
built with steel
from collapsed towers, by film
and TV footage of our favorite
characters crossing one way
or the other. Sometimes someone
who’s had too much
winds up where he started
without getting closer
to home. Color
declares, or hides, or widens
the channel for multiple
interpretations. Always the same
orange, always the same
distance either way.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 