What if
you never had a broken
heart—no, wait,
I mean bone. What if?
And no stitches
after the wisdom
teeth were pulled. But
back to the heart. Take
care not to break
your soul—those of you
who know
where to find yours.
Night Poems
In Forgetful Snow
Say something
out of bounds. Whisper
prose. Forget
how many lines
are leftover. Make some
more in the cold
night air. February
isn’t as cruel
as April, is it, Mr. Eliot?
Northern
She believes in triangles—
would rather not
triangulate. Hates crowds,
loves New York. Sees
no contradiction. The third
sister balances
textures with the sound
of a quarter moon
hitting the February sky
over Loring Park. What lies between
Minnesota and New England
are all the stories
she has left
to tell.
Wadsworth Falls, CT
Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water
fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath
one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.
Toughened or Tempered
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Weather Extreme Cinquain
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
Despite What You Believe In
Just because she takes
pictures of snow-packed trails
with her iPhone doesn’t mean
she’s a photographer. Writing
a text to his lover
doesn’t make him
a writer. Just because
she flies
first class overseas
doesn’t mean
she’s a pilot (or
waitress in the sky). Singing
“You Sexy Thing”
in the shower doesn’t make you
a singer or rock
star I might fall in
love with. Just because
I checked out
of the Take No Heroes Hotel
doesn’t mean
it will happen again.
Smokefree Cinquain
Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
Don’t Take a Souvenir Cinquain
Flashing
red and white light
above wild clay cliffs
will fade to memory without
rescue.
Past Winter Solstice
Two days into shrinking
night, photos get touch
screen silently taken
in the clouds. Who visits
the creation museum? A myth
is born. A 25-year-old
portrait painting comes alive
in a child’s arms. This rip
in the canvas
is an evolution.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 