Scene of accidents
in deep thought to be cracked apart
for easy turn over
another examination into the least lies
of poets before an absinthe
conversation between all of us and sidewalk concrete
the way it got slapped
down for one of us to greet at midnight.
It was a wider door
I never knew could be opened till she leaned in
and dozens followed
behind so many more watching from balconies
labeled by decade
so no one forgets. And a hill to tuck
and roll down that last
night before strutting on out. There’s no return
to that position—the center
of gravity has shifted as it must.
Overnight Poems
Higher Education
A fostering mother calls
to ask me not to forget
the way she dragged me
into city streets
to become a vehicle self-propelled.
Tweening
Often scratched
with a sharp object, the head
is represented. Many lack
noses. Do not require
necks. Absent
or ambivalent emotional
expression has proven effective.
The symbol for drinking does thicken
for a ragdoll type.
There has been much debate
about graffiti. Iconic
and crudely embellished
morphemes do not require
general consensus. It all started
by simplifying people
to their earliest roots.
Minnesota Takes January
It was so cold story
season again. No one visits us
up here. We have this moon
scabbed land to ourselves. You
and your friends
are crazy to perform
here at the end of this month.
If you dare, better bring
more layers than those
streaming from your guitars.
Farewell Aughts
What began east
of the Mississippi
(a mile or two) ends
west of it (a mile
or two). The living
between has crossed
bridges, barely
without jumping, has crossed
a god (or two). Frozen
but for the falls,
it doesn’t care
where I reside, what
I do when I’m in
overlook position. Whenever
they gather 8 floors up
by the riverside glass
façade, you know
the news isn’t good. Nothing’s
locking through this time
of year. Someone has locked down
temptation once
and for all again. Me,
I’m off that pedway—believing
in movement because
of the falls and everything they touch.
Was It the Best She Would Do? (Day 2,600: Take 2)
A stanza added
to three quiet ones—
it could become a record
of the commotion caused
by one silent train
rolling in, another one
about to depart.
Ode to Silence
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My Imaginary Music
How I would play the future.
I don’t know how, I would say,
before opening the piano lid
to stare at all that black and white in fear.
Then I would find middle C and forget
to stop for meals or sleep.
How I would play happiness.
An acoustic guitar perfectly strapped
across my shoulder and the pick
to go with it. Without thinking,
I would know where to put my fingers, would
know all the chords.
How I would play terror.
A full orchestra mid prelude
and all the lights go out.
How I would play childhood.
My grandmother’s garden and me,
with my red-painted, wooden toy
barrel organ, grinding out a serenade
to the lilacs, lilies, myrtle
in between, to the tune
of “The Sidewalks of New York.”
How I would play you.
East Side, West Side, all around
the town, I sing a cappella
waiting for the lights to go out
so I can find you again,
serenading the dark with twelve strings.
Palimpsest
By any other name, old under
new over these layered spasms could be
a lover’s ancestor in throes
of it. The lover did not
inherit that passion. It could be
learned. Or unlearned. No.
I cannot go back. I can
repurpose desire into
energy to stay awake overnight
for this city’s sake. But shadow
limbs will move behind a scrim—an ache
will likely bleed through.
Marionette
Lapsing into flaps to close a cardboard box, she slips a note in afterward
the way she forgets she can dance
without strings. The tension
for the right arm varies from that of the knee. Thighs weigh more
than you might imagine. Pulled out, she emerges
naked and cut free
of nerves before the flaps fold
over each other, before everything collapses,
before she slips away without written instructions
on how to manipulate the soil
to grow freshly carved limbs.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 