Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns
the land. Who
owns you—precious
liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s
an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop
you up—but
I won’t buy.
Night Poems
Night Lane Closures
Could be left,
could be right. Before
or after the rain. Ambiguous
warnings are not ambivalent
flashes. Torches puncturing
the dark sky to beckon
and repel
with equal force. And
detours don’t reveal
themselves so easily.
Not that Kind of Screed
Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm
so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection
sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still
she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road
death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing
but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.
Entrain
The invisible
line between
walking and running
talking and singing
touching and pressuring
scent and stench
breeze and gust
sleeping and dying
to live is
lift off.
Clumsy Truth
When she spills
a cup
of tea
in the same
place at the same
time twice
in one week,
she knows
her body’s not
done yet. And
it may rain.
This Year’s Color
Radiant orchid
throughout each season—even now
when rain can’t quite
wash away the most hardened dirty
snow. Somewhere the temperature
drops just enough at night
before a warming settles in. Somewhere
someone sings,
“California Dreamin’”
to coax things along. Someone
somewhere is still searching
for a word that rhymes
with orange.
My New England Roots
Are showing. I am not afraid
of gray
days and midnight blue
evenings—the Atlantic
a skipping stone’s
throw away
at all times. Barnacles
hosted in the seams
of everything. Four distinct
seasons, each with its own
drama—highs and lows.
Connecticut and Massachusetts
call me home at the least
expected moments. I don’t
always answer—but can’t
camouflage my soul’s saturation for long.
Ice in Formation
It could be a horse’s white
mane that hangs
over an outdoor
sconce. Week after
week, it doesn’t melt. Is it
permanent? She hears
a recording of her own
voice and wonders who
might want to curl up
inside it till it thaws.
Blazing Darkness in Three Syllables
She will learn
how to locate her
own duende,
so she won’t
have to borrow
yours anymore. And now
she gets
home before dark.
Library
In bars, on street corners, along
green hill campuses, in dark
corners beneath
office towers, on trains, beside
zoos, buried deep
below backyards, above a murder
of crows, in the palm
of her hand.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 