Your handwriting.
His song. My memo
pad. This spiral
belongs to all
of us and no one
can touch it
without losing a grip
on how we get
sequenced
without a true set list.
And still the memorization
gets passed on.
Night Poems
Tiny Changes at the Last Minute
Accidents no longer
mistakes. Nothing
about buildings or fences,
not another bridge,
a scrap of graffiti rides
out on the 11:45 train. Her net
is small, her heart large. She just wants
to take a closer look
then let you go.
Set Up for Reverie
A hinge creaks, the trap
door swings opens. She passes
through. It’s these details.
They weigh on her. She’s not
catatonic—she just can’t complete her day
dream. She needs to fill in
all the blanks. Where? What
begins in a coffee bar on Hennepin moves
to a Linden Hills basement
to a truck parked
on the street to a pedestrian
bridge over the river. When?
Civil twilight to midnight
with a full moon. What?
An encounter transforms
into a planned meeting
into a passionate charge
down to experience the unforgettable. Why?
Because it’s finally time.
Who? You
would like to know. If
she could just get to the kiss,
she might reveal the shadow
hands pressing against
her hips. Until then,
you can hover overhead.
Body Terror Scansion
Long or short, nothing
must be out of place. Clipped
corners in love
with a raked center. The scent
of six o’clock bells
in the cold dark must trail
off just so. Just so
this mouth doesn’t lose
its absolute shape.
The Waiting Again
This eye encased
in brick—not a bearing
wall but for show. This eye
above
the bar before me
is not staring down but straight
ahead till remodeling
becomes
a plan. And I wait around
another corner. Some string
quartet plays in another room. Not
what I’m waiting for.
A march
of Absolut bottles—Apeach, Kurant,
Mandrin, Mango, Pears, Peppar, Raspberri,
Ruby Red. Someone has taken
the time to line them up in alphabetical
order. Not
what I’m waiting for. I would never wait
for the bottle—the bottle would never wait
for me. That one’s over. This one
is an outpouring
of dark song—always worth it.
Always an incurable
gaze, mine.
Cauldron Over Ice
Macbeth is here to be
seen down by the river.
Take a walk
on the endless
bridge overlooking it
to get ready. These three sisters
will not be dismissed.
From Washington Avenue South
Coming soon
in red—Macbeth
crawls up
the sky.
Torch Spin
A fire in the machine,
someone wants a flashlight
clean if not erased. Early
to everything, she never leaves her complete
linen stagnant, never forgets to remove lint
from communal mesh. Never
fashionable, she brings this notebook
into empty clubs. She’s never really alone—
knows her way in any kind of darkness.
Soma
He recreates himself, prepares
to be drunk again. I come
to him with my stainless steel moon
cup, my female thirst, prepare
to be drunk again. He presses
himself, won’t press me.
If I do this, it won’t be his
descent. Is it that I wish to be divine,
or my fear of sticking around
too long—the moon’s rhythm
over the ocean lost.
Female Gandharva
To embarrass a lone monk
she fills herself with oak.
He staggers and
despite everything (which strives to be
nothing)
can’t deny the ecstasy of dwelling
in scents of bark, sap, and
blossom. Before he can steady
his breath, she pours leftover contents
of the moon
into his mouth—pure soma, no
rhubarb substitute will due. But it’s the heat
from her enabler’s hand
he can’t resist.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 