Today slate,
tomorrow lapis
lazuli, tonight
a batting between.
She’ll never see
the world through the eyes
of stars. A blue moon
would be her waltz
to summer night
swoons. And that’s new
wave enough.
Morning Poems
With Sloping Shelves
Multicolored book
trucks still roll
into view. She muzzles
herself as she drifts
to a one-room
library circa 1970. Rain dazzles
the surface
of the island. The scent
of Mylar, settled-in
type, a lilac
perfume on the librarian
who reads
Blueberries for Sal
to a circle
of restless children. Next stop,
next town, the Flying Horses
to ring themselves off.
Then it fades away.
10 Months
Another 27th day hits
the way heat slaps
my face when I leave
an air-conditioned
shell. He would have walked
in it—no matter
what. I mention an MIT cap
and ring to a young architect
who knows
the Institute well. He says
as much as it changes
it remains the same. My father
faced change,
loved the same.
June 12: 22 Years Later
It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,
noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga
River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black
leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.
Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator
carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies
within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.
From Seed to Glass
Prairie vodka—a beverage
I will never taste. Made in Minnesota.
Property tax—a phrase
I’ll never utter
in Minnesota
or anywhere else. Show tune—
a collection of verses
I will never
memorize. I see rhinoceros—
a warping I will never stop
laughing over.
Organic drunk—
an oxymoron I still remember
how to translate.
Compression
The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.
The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.
The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.
The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.
Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.
Trapped Inside a Song or Short Story
In a dream not that long ago,
he celebrated
a rare
moment being
anonymous by sitting next
to me—
close. But I knew. Thighs
touching just as I remember
they did
once or twice or thrice before—closer.
In some nonlinear fantasy narrative—
closest.
The writer retires.
Rain or Shine Garden
A perfectly ripe Jersey
tomato color seeps
from a pen. A knit
cap worn in the middle
of May and a pair
of capris too. No
socks—ripe
or not. No word
on when the next
weather pattern
will arrive.
Minnesota Spring Breaks
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
Eight Months
While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 