Acacia or yellow
tulips won’t do. Lime
blossoms too much, bellflowers
not enough. No,
I choose you
because it was the heat
rising from my throat
across my cheeks
to my ears
that he wanted
to generate.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Morning Poems
Our Saudade
It revolved around Boston,
the Cape, Amherst, the Vineyard, Woburn,
an entire state—
our common ground. You—
with your accent and clearly delineated roots. Me—
with a brief history,
my mother’s story, and an incurable longing
no word in English
could contain. All of our plotting
and heightened talk went nowhere beyond
imagination. Now that I know
you are back home, I’ll fly
East so we can finally spend a moment
together on this sacred turf. You—
ashes. Me—alive
more than ever, ready to be enough
for the both of us.
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.
A Darker Pomegranate
I collect dates
as if they were door
handles. Seek the perfectly shaped one
to build a saudade
life around. Your birth, or death,
or the afternoon you got divorced—
it could be one of those.
But I choose to lock
my eyes on a calendar
with the first day of school
circled in red. Tuesday,
September 2nd, 1980. You looked right
in red. Let the vintage ink
smear. Now I will too.
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.
Riprap
As your front line eroded,
someone else gained an edge.
Only a brisk swim at dawn
could return the equilibrium
your grandparents hoped you’d find.
Just one more question, then I promise
to let you rest in peace:
What did you do with the green
house once you sold off
those last blooms and colors
after your private war had ended?
I like to imagine you may drift
across its threshold
on particularly windy mornings.
Dead Man’s Hand
Then he drew a cloud
to hold all the love
letters I wrote
to all those objects
of my obsession. Before
digital mapping the whereabouts
of my heart, there was the weather
and pleas for stamps.
Trapezoidal
Back then you said I made you long
for your high school days. I wouldn’t go
back there. Yet I yearn
to make you yearn again. But
too much has come to pass—
including your demise.
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.
CT
Whatever happened to Dumptruck? What
got lost in the Portland quarry has been
recycled into Brooklyn brownstone tall
tales. I used to shout: “Get off
my island” too. Followed by the refrain:
“No one owns
the land.” Thought I was so clever
discovering her getaway
path—used to be mine. You didn’t want
to take it till it became
hers. And definitely no one owns
the water between—no matter
what anyone says. That includes you
singing or talking in your sleep.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 