Yesterday. An unmarked package
delivered on an unmarked
morning. But she knows. Has been expecting
you to return
for a new verse, extended play. Gone
from gonna to did
and looping
back again. No more bye-bye. What’s it
like? Who really wants to know?
Weeping
becomes her salve
addiction not to cure
her gift to you and all those gone
before
Today slate,
tomorrow lapis
lazuli, tonight
a batting between.
She’ll never see
the world through the eyes
of stars. A blue moon
would be her waltz
to summer night
swoons. And that’s new
wave enough.
Into this
collision of events—
an anniversary and
an announcement.
An epitaph nodding
at a long dead
affair gets plastered
with a bill blasting
a live
threat. A reunion
of the soundtrack
that did her in. She could peel
it off—the stone would still
be cool. But these words
are not.
It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,
noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga
River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black
leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.
Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator
carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies
within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.
She could write
a song
about writing
a postcard.
It’s been done
before—some from hell.
Some cause the blues
(sender or receiver). Some
are messages no one
is ready
to hear yet. Others
never read. And one
might say it all
along the edge.
The shortest
distance between
two images
is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two thoughts
is a poem.
The shortest distance between
two emotions is a poem.
The
shortest
distance
between
two
cities
is
a
poem.
The shortest distance between two strangers is a poem.
The shortest distance
between two designer
putt-putt golf
holes is a poem.
Distance between—a poem.
Nothing straight will do.
There was meeting you. And younger
brothers—real
and imaginary. My first close encounter
with the third eye of a stormy
near collapse. No time for window-shopping.
A blur, and I would be back. In the midst
of it, I didn’t know that yet. You
would die before I got so dirty
in the gritty City
I couldn’t escape
a never-ending love affair
not even moving would break. And
I didn’t get to tell you about it
when you were alive, so how about now?
Once upon a time,
a 13-year-old girl emerged
from Penn Station,
and so it begins.
In a dream not that long ago,
he celebrated
a rare
moment being
anonymous by sitting next
to me—
close. But I knew. Thighs
touching just as I remember
they did
once or twice or thrice before—closer.
In some nonlinear fantasy narrative—
closest.
The writer retires.
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 