The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
Even if she did eat
pears, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He still would have expected
love too soon. Would still be drinking
too much
red wine strangely chilled
to notice how
she devours green apples.
The last word
appears suddenly, strikes
like lightning
without any thunder
no matter
how long I count.
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.
A cold apartment
is a cold apartment
regardless. If
the boiler
that generates heat
within is broken,
the answer
is not to smash
potted plants
onto the sidewalk. It’s not
the stoop’s fault.
On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
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.
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
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.
I’ve been
afraid to live
in a world without you.
Words gone under bridges, music
remains.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 