To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
Lightning Won’t
Strike twice on
the same stage
in the same
heart to doom
the same
life all over
again. She only thinks
she recognizes
that dose
of thunder
as his.
More Delicious
Where does the pain go
when she stops
feeling it? When
it is no longer
masked by
drugs or delusion. When
the physical becomes
emotional becomes
psychological dares
to become
spiritual. Couldn’t it
just be?
Delicious
Pain is
a messenger
she would like
to shoot
if she had
a gun. If
she believed
in that sort
of thing. If
she had
better aim. If
she wasn’t
sometimes in
love with it—him.
Eccentric or Concentric
The trigger
point may be
centimeters (or miles)
lower than he thinks. It may
be so much
higher, so much
in your head.
Brackish
She threw
nostalgia in—
along with your initials.
“Turn all
post-war, pre-washed, personal works
over for good, or
for as long as it takes
to forget
again.”
Another message
written in poor
handwriting, stuffed
in a glass
bottle to be tossed
into another body
of water—salt or fresh,
or in between.
After the First Year
Let the counting
continue invisible. A voice
so beautiful she’s afraid
to listen for it. If it’s the best
she’ll ever hear,
what then? What key
do ghosts sing in?
12 Months
Just after midnight. Day
365. Just as time
closes the circle
tight, another one
in a parallel life
opens just a crack
to let in the light
of all the sunrises
my father did witness,
all the waves
he did hear crash
against all the shores
he claimed
with an intensity
in his eyes.
Just as I wonder
how I will see it rise
through a late August
storm, I remember
I could let go
of the immediate
future to breathe
more freely into this
slowed-down now.
I could address
my father directly,
and no one would care
if I believed
in spirits. And so
I do know
you are out there
whether I can see you
or not. This day
will break
as it will
no matter what.
Wish Serendipity
She accidentally drops
a penny
into a plastic cup
filled with water.
Aiming for the tip
jar, how did she miss?
Whose water—
now magical
or polluted? No one
notices. She decides
on magic,
and it would be
peace for you, Dad.
Sandy Hook Light
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s…
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Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 