I wake to rumors
of the season’s first
snow fall, to a tickle
in the back of the throat urging
me to utter:
I am a fraud.
But I won’t
play, won’t say a word. Laughter
comes next. Good news
makes me anxious—what to do
with my hands,
lungs, knees. How to wear
my hair, my lips. Glasses
on? Off? It’s true—secret’s out.
Time to put the moment
on display.
Wears out
a pen is
a good sign
was something
she wrote
in a journal
30 years ago
to dig herself
out is still
a message
she can use
to get
your attention
off those dreams
onto hers.
Old fillings fall out—old
infatuations rise
up—old habits move
on—old stories settle
in—I’m not so old I can’t tuck
myself into the next
roll over.
Each poem, drunk, diary
entry. Each smoke, vitamin,
obsession. Each song
lyric, verbal tick, chapter
read. Each piece
of chocolate, mile
walked, resentment nursed.
I am each reprieve.
Fear ghosts,
god, graffiti, guardian
angels, and
home.
Dear Day:
This is no Dear John. I promise
to embrace your moments—to be
true. And when you expire, I’ll live
in your memory. It’s my favorite
thing to do.
If I study the word
“long” from every measured angle
I still won’t know what
you meant or felt by those right-slanting
letters. And with you
dead, those secrets will remain secure
inside a locker
I’m not meant to discover. If I do,
I‘ll pretend not to remember
the combination just so you can
teach me about numbers again—
however it is you ghosts
do that sort of thing.
“One must be receptive, receptive to the image at the moment it appears.”
—Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space
In moments like these
I do what I do
best—steal.
I see your collage
of sea glass clad the curve
of a clam shell
and raise you a cloth bag
laden with leaves, light
fixtures, planks from bleachers, a pale
pink mannequin
arm, the final words
he whispered before
he left the café at dusk. I see straight
through our trial
to time to be served.
Popo is short
for poor poet
as much as it is
for the police.
“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best
between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her
even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick
in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg
drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long
for the artless construction
of your face.
Tonight
Noguchi saves
all of us from those fears
we nourish in our souls before
morning.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 