I let the spider go. If
the cat gets it,
that’s his business. I’m employed
by other fears—larger,
invisible, transportable up
the bedroom wall
by other means.
Overnight Poems
Barnacle Love
A barnacle clings
to its host, a kiss-up,
annoying to distraction.
A barnacle hugging
its rocks, the foundation
beds its shore.
Natural Pause
It’s not going to kill
me—this chemistry
experiment being
performed inside the boundary
between me and
everything else. Unused.
Cessation. It gets erased
gradually.
Could Be Ambidextrous
All the beautiful
moments have been taken.
What’s left
in my releasing
hands is this—
truthful seep into the less
elastic skin of memory.
Sworn In On Out
She never takes room—a spillover
lover from his last book
of bed times
and sleeping porches
in a town so much
warmer than here. Where
he would say fuck out
loud, she would be a collapsed
chorus of giggles:
Who is this
who makes me fall
down so easily into
spasms without withdrawal,
not even from a drop
of espresso
that woman splattered
on her way out the door? But
he sings it instead, and that
just makes her stand steady for more.
Make It, Lie In It
Frost on the empty
bottle in a dying
flower
bed, I don’t know what to make
of this month’s crisp cache.
A locked black metal trunk affixed
to a downtown
bus shelter’s glass
backing holds those same
secrets—no public access, and I’m not
ready to go so private without
you, crawling along, ready
to wrap my swollen feet
in your final scroll.
Fall Down Green
Overheard. I don’t need a sitting
room, I need
a universal
room where you can go
to burn
off surprise. And kindling
would be so because
these are ginkgo leaves
and this is October
and that is snow.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 