Force of habit that I keep talking
to him even if he has not responded
in more than a quarter century. Dead
for nearly a decade. Sorry
for this latest obsession
and the way I write around it
in circles, never piercing
the heart so I can move on.
This isn’t an amends. I see no curve
in the road, no opportunity to make a U-turn. No desire. No plea
for forgiveness. A status update—
nothing more.
Yes, I do this thing to live
life twice.
To get a second chance
to say
the right thing, glance
at you
from the right angle,
take charge
when you hesitate,
lean back
in silence when it’s your turn.
I’ll learn to accept all these
little deaths
when you show me how in the next
revision.
Always a bit of gravel
or tar stuck to the bottom
of my shoe. Seldom
anyone watching
when I knock it off.
Haven’t studied a piece
of sculpture in over a month.
Longer for a painting
on a wall or dance performance
on some specific site.
I’m using
pretzel formation
to collect images
to keep from losing
my mind—you are gone.
How long do I wallow
in your death?
It was so long ago,
your kisses tasted
like smoke, not mine.
No more the Police’s “Don’t Stand
So Close to Me.” This AA Bondy song, “Mercy
Wheel,” will be our new
our song. Your obituary
says to donate to the American
Heart Association in lieu of flowers—but
you loved them.
Is it because you died
of a broken heart?
Is the reference to the American
Lung Association because the loss
left you unable to breathe?
Past lovers are just that—
in the past. To make love
in a Victorian novel does not require
removing clothes. Consummation
and closure are two different things
you forgot to explain—and now you’re gone.
I’ve wanted to take back
so much more than
the night.
Not in the mood
for making up
prayers. Mnemonic
games go only so far. Silent
letters tickle ankles,
stretch walks beyond midnight
mile markers. This is personal—
trombones kill
the recitation calm.
365 day
hat wearer goes down
the last shaded one way lane.
Take another day, flip
through pages desperately
seeking a poetic
heliport to land on—damselfly
become aware of what’s precious
turf the way no insect
could. Become the contradiction
you’ve dreamed of
embodying all your life. Chuckle
over the claw
foot tub in the middle
of a bedroom in a rundown apartment
in the middle
of last night’s dream. Just that—the criticism
was a mirage. Plans
to plant a garden inside the porcelain
basin no longer necessary. Nothing’s
real anymore, so do it today—do it now.
Expectations for the long arm
of light to cradle her—better
yet jolt her—into a wider frame
can only lead to one thing:
disillusionment
that after tonight everything begins
to shrink. Or, there’s another one: relief
that summer is poised to stretch across
the best spills and spans.
Enamor is a taste
more than a color. Extrovert
texture. Black cherry—there’s a hue.
Signage means more to her
than the shape
of these chairs. Positive thinking
is a song.
I saw worms everywhere curling
and pulsating across
the sidewalk the day before. Airport
terminal power mysteriously out
the day before. Seductive electricity
shreds after midnight
the day of. Morning showers
give way just long enough
to put me in a Sunday afternoon
trance. Those sirens have nothing
on us—cat and me—the moment
of. Just a few miles north
flattens. The day before
sinks to the muddy bottom
of puddles where urban legends
have drowned.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 