Microscope left on the piano
no one plays
tonight. Parades in the cold
silence this close study
of notes. Lids down,
I can hear
the blizzards that hum
without strings.
Night Poems
Night Poem
Upside down hurricane
lamps hang
from a ceiling’s exposed
bones in a place
called SPACE. Drapes
for walls, everyone can see
what the cooks are doing
with the night.
There’s nowhere
in this space
to hide. And yet
the singer won’t appear
till it’s time.
Colors of Imperfection
How to wash a wall
clean escapes me. The stained
yellow frame
of life happened
has marked where the black
and white Flat Iron
Building photo hung
in elongation. Always a phallic
comment, but that’s not it. And
now I want to hang you—
your black, white, and gray
evocation of guitar and train—
your one fast move or I’m gone
tour memorabilia on that spot. But
you won’t fit. A black line
from the edge
of a chest of drawers,
a tiny crack
in the new frame
I’ve bought to hold you in.
A collection of flaws—not a god in sight.
It’s a Joke
So a woman walks into a bar
with an empty stage
near the back door. She sees a saint
who looks like Willie Nelson
knocking back a shot, decides to ask him
to grant her a wish. “Please, please, please
oh messenger of God, please
let me win the lottery.” No
response. He orders another. She leaves.
Comes back the next night. Same saint, same
question—same silence.
The next night—all the same. Finally,
on the evening of a full moon, she enters
the bar to find the saint sitting on a stool
on the stage with a beat-up, old Gibson
Advanced Jumbo. She begins again, “Please,
please, oh messenger. . .” He interrupts her—“You know,
when I think of saints, I think of
Jay Farrar. Oh, and baby, would you be willing
to buy a ticket this time?”
Emerging Exit
Zippers, buckles, snaps. Buttons
are boring. Based on this,
she prepares her fingers
for the nimble dream.
I Feel Therefore I Am
More than a freshly cut
bundle, more than a bonfire
burning in a field
across the highway, I am
all emotion: no bones,
tendons, skin left.
Everything touches
the raw side—ecstatic
tears, smiles
through grief. I can’t
tell the difference
between my own
laughter, sobs,
orgasms. It’s all
release,
it’s all that’s left,
it’s all I’ve ever been.
Figure
Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.
Will
Don’t you want me
to dance on your grave?
These ashes could soothe
more than feet—could be
those dead man’s clothes
are yours now.
Pons
Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless
over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved
the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost
is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted
with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors
to escape from the message:
not to be false.
October Grief
Dust in a machine,
overheated thoughts trigger
emergency shutdowns. Zigzag
is not a place. This is
the only place
where rain comes in threads
that won’t dissolve
the glue she uses
to hold what’s left
of her together.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 