The alarms are as false
as the ladders and boots are
true to form. She prepares
to leave, doesn’t want sleep
disruption on this last night
before an angel appears—some people
go to church—she goes
straight to the source.
Overnight Poems
The Best Thing To Do
To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath
is a risk
to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief
and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.
A Seasonal Man
For Steve
A spring rain
essence hangs in the air
on a Saturday morning
in October, triggers memories
of any season
up for grabs. We hunt for rats
in the NYC subway,
on its streets, behind
its garbage bins
in alleys. Summer in the City
always makes a statement
to the nose. Bad
puns and monotony
breaking drinks to keep us
warm on a Minnesota winter
night. I came unprepared. You
had no idea what you were
getting yourself into—out of.
On the west bank
of the Saint Croix,
we read through
all I had written
come spring. It came
so violently, I almost faded
dead away
by my own hand. Was it yours
that crossed out
the almost
18 years later—the slow
desperation of a soul dying
to be free.
Arrogant Cocoon
If she saw what touched
those streets, these steps
she rarely takes, that railing,
she wouldn’t leave her own
skin, wouldn’t believe
in the imagination
and its relatives, would
simply wrap herself up
till it rained.
No Anodyne
Another symptom—repetition—
a narrative loop
you thought was only running
in your head leaks
out. The sound is a drone,
explosion, premonition, reaper
grim about the mouth.
Georgia One Revisited
To confuse sense
of place with your lap, accidental
falls with the truth
as it comes out when
I’m asleep is to reenter
those dreams I forget.
No More Legend
Conversation
dialogue monologue—mute
power down.
Unnatural Causes
To identify where
it all went wrong, when
isolation became a drug
as potent as anything
ingested, when ingesting
became impossible
is
to pretend to be
some kind of god
with flame-retardant wings.
The Last Argument
She was no femme
fatale, would accept roses
without devouring the stems
whole. Suffering
from acute self
absorption, we bump against
our own reflections
in confusion, believe those faces
to be other
than ourselves. We’re wrong, forever
seeking fabric to conceal
these bruises—ours, theirs.
Overshot
If this deluge is sent
to get our attention, imagine
a whisper through
a still open window.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 