Seeing the city
park dandelion
fountain fanning
and splaying
water again,
I remember
not all death
is permanent.
Not Everything Nearly Went Bankrupt in the 70s
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.
May 20, 2013
After 28 years, this day still knocks
the wind out of me.
More than a quarter
century. Just shy
of three decades. I look for you
in each fresh start.
Would you still accept
me after all the near misses and messes
I’ve gotten into? The slowly revolving
mop ups? Would you still
believe in being
a work in progress? Would you
give me another chance? I can hear
your voice as clearly as when
you were alive: Yes.
Forges On
Her attempt to weld boxed
all of us in. Hinges that wouldn’t
swing in unison
when she wanted
to hide from the future
litany of failures. Mysterious
groin pull
but no limp. She walks on.
Her father didn’t make furniture,
didn’t have time
to collect tools. Inherited gold
apprentices with modern moves
and names. Could be it’s all
in her head.
Recovered Excavation
A red door
in a basement
is someone’s memory
of her father. Removed
from the must
and toad populated
puddles beneath
the stair, it still hinges
on a human hand
to be moving.
Danish teak
furniture had nothing
to do with it.
Traveling Lighter in Increments
A cold spell snaps
into the first
heat wave
of the season. Which season?
An approach
by air
rather than
by sea
could open
those island gates
she has been eyeing
for as long
as she has been walking
without a crutch.
Trapped Inside a Song or Short Story
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.
Rain or Shine Garden
A perfectly ripe Jersey
tomato color seeps
from a pen. A knit
cap worn in the middle
of May and a pair
of capris too. No
socks—ripe
or not. No word
on when the next
weather pattern
will arrive.
Depot Upper Deck
A spider
plant clings
to her
hair then lets
go. Up wooden
stairs to a higher
viewing ground. Buds
to become
leaves. Then
go off
while she waits
for the right
words to compress
into a pot
for later
use. Wanders
across borders
with dirt
sculpted into
velvet vignettes
with small tails.
Minnesota Spring Breaks
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 