A temporary sand
sifter, he defies
easy profiles. A man who seeks
to clear away the grains
of disaster. But he will ride a hybrid
bus to the shoreline
to begin to give
away what he knows
on his own
timeline. He will become
blasted clean.
Morning Poems
H2O: Same as Water
Questions about
the history of ice hover
in the coffee
bar air. Little plastic
green army
men are strewn
across a mezzanine
floor. The child
whom they belong to
hums in a corner.
All I can think is
someone will slip
and fall on ice
or war.
Would Have Been
Your 36th
sober birthday if
you had lived. I remember
when you told me
you put down
the bottle. I didn’t understand—
my first tipsy
only weeks before. But
that prayer
I now choke on
between “grant me”
and “the serenity”
since you died. That prayer
I thought you wrote
with your second wife. That prayer
I knew had magic
in it—hanging over
the kitchen sink
ready to help
whoever might read it
come clean. That prayer
I pin
to my heart each night
before I sleep. That prayer
enshrines every gift
you, my father,
ever gave away.
Two Years Smoke Free (Or, David Bowie’s Birthday)
Wild winter wishes
rumble through weeds. A plain
for practicing
freedom cartwheels. Late
afternoon fog, or
are they low-lying
clouds dancing just above
freezing? No more
halo, I make my way home
without rings.
Ode to 2012
More than ready to close
the book
on this year. New cases bought
and assembled. Shelves and volumes
remembered, dusted, rearranged. A new order—but
too much left
unsaid. A beautiful birth, a transformative
death, I stand
somewhere between
living my life.
Beware Neglected Candles (or, Another Year)
A weatherman’s heart,
a three-alarm
fire two miles south, the furnace
kicks in, a hiss
that warms, cause
unknown, to kick it
just for today,
let the cat out
the back door, safety
from what you think
you want, draws
to a close.
Four Months
The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
One Hundred Days, or Memento Mori VIII
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
Rain on the First Day of December
A cold apartment
is a cold apartment
regardless. If
the boiler
that generates heat
within is broken,
the answer
is not to smash
potted plants
onto the sidewalk. It’s not
the stoop’s fault.
Impression of the Upper Part
A thumbprint
is something to behold
until it is all
you are. Head, shoulders,
widening tie. Identity over
unity, you cannot fathom second
person plural, can no longer tell
the difference between
a swirl and recoil.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 