I rearrange the furniture
in my head
to clear a path
to that alcove
of possibility. Poetry is
wayfinding
written in Braille
with lemon rind
and a candle burning
at each station.
Day Poems
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.
Eyewear
Brushed velvet
metal the color
of rich stories
and a dream euphoria
without wine. Italian
acetate won’t be recalled.
Seeking Muse for Hire
Her current favorite
has gone abroad
for the remainder
of the year. Another one
just quit—returned
to the grave without so much
as a simple parting
image. A once reliable one
keeps hiding
downriver. The weather is
unremarkable. No plans
to travel around cliffs
or on crowded trains.
Even a blinking red
traffic safety light
on that man’s messenger
bag in an indoor plaza
leaves her
without illumination. To be chronic
has its challenges—she might borrow
one just to get through this night.
Black Friday on the Mall
In defiance, I will walk
directly into the fray.
Will use red ink
to sign my name. I’ll slip
through lines like ether.
Window shop down
every block. Pray for it
to rain tonight
on that damn parade.
Acceptance Letter
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.
Pricked by Blue Flowers
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.
Any Day Now
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.
I Am Chronic
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.
Found Tags
Fear ghosts,
god, graffiti, guardian
angels, and
home.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 