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.
Day Poems
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.
No Past
“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.
Yearbook: A Found Poem
“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.
Sculpture Garden Cinquain
Tonight
Noguchi saves
all of us from those fears
we nourish in our souls before
morning.
This Is My Apology to the World
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.
Is There Internet Where You Are?
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.
What Flavor Preoccupation
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.
Not Necrophilia
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.
The Face I Can’t Erase
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 