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.
Night Poems
Sagittarius
A lull toward late
fall, messages arrive
scrambled. Those born
on the light shrinking side
of winter solstice
carry an extra
burden. We must generate
an expanding light
from within. And it just might
illuminate the shoreline
for those of us now walking
the boards in the afterlife.
Four More Years Please Cinquain
On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
Go Back to Rockville
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
Last Blue Moon
She divides her days into
before and after
he died.
Into with and without. Into
physical and spiritual.
She believes
in god in phases
of the moon’s breaking
open to become sliced
beams of light. A blue one
puts him to rest.
27 August 2012
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Caryatid on Leave
Diffuse
weepers align
with this place where she stood,
held up the world’s concentration,
and sighed.
Scented Cinquain
Smoke cleared,
the time has come
for her to claim her own
signature fragrance—a rose at
midnight.
33 Years
Remnants of an unnamed
storm still smashing
against the Long Beach Island shoreline. Reception still
good. Saturday Night Live
rerun in full ridiculous swing.
Who’s the host? Who remembers?
Two bodies
entwined as if the rest
of the world’s become a silent movie
during intermission. Her first—not
his. Memory captured and recorded. The world resumes
its 1979 footage.
Long Distance Brackish Exchange
Just past midnight
wishes travel
instantaneously from the south
shore to the west
bank and beyond
(a mile or so). The drop
of salt
water says to the fresh
one in the middle:
I want
to see pictures.
Too mesmerized
by his voice, how he plays
your guitar, to dig out
my camera,
comes the muddy reply.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 