Brushed velvet
metal the color
of rich stories
and a dream euphoria
without wine. Italian
acetate won’t be recalled.
Day Poems
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.
(Day 3,242)
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.
Lesson Plan
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 