Rumors of notes
divided up—a settlement
made behind closed trap
doors. Illegal bindings
can lead to the tightest bonds
and rhythm section. Whatever
you call it—maybe true
love—spills forth
where the mapping leaves off.
Morning Poems
Lullaby to Icarus
The too bright
morning sun
has yet to burn
off any of this late
April snow. What good
is an international
film festival pass
if she refuses
to see? Drama
of the interior elates
her more than a car
chase her father would have laughed
over. The last notes
to the bridge
smell the best.
Another One for the First City I Loved
Swan boats
Arthur Fiedler
Logan Sumner Tunnel
The Phoenix Newbury Comics
Fenway
Hell Was the Second Word You Uttered
It’s 9 am
on a Saturday
in April, do you know where
your Please
Kill Me t-shirt
is? Who you were
with the first time
you listened to Chronic
Town all the way through?
Gardening at night
is not always as romantic
as it seems. Mumbling may be
a gift of genius,
or merely of the arrogant
camouflaging an inferiority
complex the size of a bull’s eye
on that t-shirt
in XXXL. Or, it could all be
a joke—the way
we equate enunciating
with the truth.
Twisted Anniversary
Twenty years ago when she thought she would live
forever, she tried to cut it
short. Twenty years later, she’s doing all she can
to preserve each daily miracle. Joy
Division was rattling in
her head: “She’s Lost Control.” Who knows what
the Roadhouse jukebox
was pumping out. It was Neil Young who awakened her
with a “Harvest Moon”
in April to a morning she didn’t know she would want
to know. Some dates are best
forgotten. She’s the lucky one who gets to remember the long play.
A Boat in a Fog May Not Be Lonely
I blush to think
how I did examine
that photo of you
naked. In the privacy
of my apartment. Alone.
Always alone there,
here, for now for however
long. Long enough
to defrost the freezer
on a schedule. My therapist
says go
online, experiment, be
a tease, say no. I
say no
to that. I think
I should—no, I fear
I should have no
one to tease. Could I
tease you for a night?
Could I be the smile
in Minnesota
for you? Is that meeting
in Theatre 80 on Saint Marks Place
where the original
punks who did not die go to not die?
I’ll never say. I’m one too.
Color Mnemonics
Fear is the only four letter word
I need to say
to be free. Another season begins
to break
without him. A patch of sidewalk
ice melts
into a small lake, freezes again
overnight. Spring
can’t get any traction. Somewhere
an empty suitcase, an empty raincoat,
an empty tomb. Don’t forget (a parent
or sister might say)
to snap
a mental picture
of those ocean waves breaking
open another calm
after a late winter storm.
Open Channel Loading
“Love’s a Spanish word to be sung.”
—Jay Farrar (Son Volt, from the song “Brick Walls”)
He would live in a pop-up
hotel, watch water
drain from a claw
foot tub, walk
the length of his own city
without a license. Not
to speak
a single word
for ten days and use
that vacant space
to recall each
and every train
he’s boarded. In English,
it all hinges
on a Rio Red 747.
Sun’s First Suspension
The morning’s unexcused
absence can lead to another,
then another, and
still another till
truncated days are
all we get. Our children’s
children will dream of civil
dawn the way we long
for a pristine shoreline, pine
forest, subway wall, guitar
riff. Saudade
for time of day
as much as for a place
or soul we never knew
renders us
human all over again.
Pin Bones and Other Floating Objects
To read upside
down even for an hour
without laughing
out loud, to spell out
all acronyms
subject to interpretation,
to whisper
so loudly periods explode
is to become a modern
dancer who courts
her shadow
when the coast is clear.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 