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…
View original post 28 more words
360
Come full circle
is not complete
without the last five
days. Can I keep
the pace of grief
steady? Sequential
dreaming is overrated. Change
the setting, change
the internal
dialogue and all the reed
instruments collected
in one long
narrow room. Corridor
songs round their notes
best without cracking them.
In Six Days
The counting may stop,
the spinning through
a thousand seasons
in a day may
become a memory. Or,
it won’t. Who
can predict
how my feet
will move
on the island
at dawn.
Monday Mornings in August
Hurt my eyes, my bones,
those muscles with memory
make themselves
known. To wake
to news
of a dimness
that has descended
from a light that has been extinguished
permanently—what is left
to fear? He cannot die
all over again,
can he? But the pain
is real. Spasms stun
me into beginning
those stages of awareness,
grief again, out of order.
Or Bluff
The last lift
she achieved
cannot prepare her
(or him)
for any elevation
gained or lost
the next
morning. Hot
or cold, tea
spilled at regular
intervals throughout
this next
day begins
to resemble a channel
not carved
by man (or woman).
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 