Suddenly she realizes
she’s been reading
the wrong book
and following the wrong
rules. And living in the wrong
neighborhood in the wrong
city. And working at the wrong
job and playing the wrong
piano. Wearing the wrong
smile. Loving the wrong
man. And she wonders
what’s so wrong
with wrong.
Dumpster divers go
deep into the dense
castaway fray
seeking souls
sold, gifted, re-gifted,
sold again. Is their retrieval
performance art? I set
the stage with a table,
chairs, worn-out dresses,
a suede jacket bought
used, old bookcases,
more than one pair
of black boots. Am I the set
designer or merely
an enabler?
Questions to ask next time
the lid slams too hard.
I am the waterfront
cottage you refuse
to abandon
after another super
storm. I refuse
to be redundant. I am
one more tragic
hero in a long line
of them swimming
in the undertow
after dark. Could be
avoided. It’s the heel not ankle
deep water. I am
never coming back.
Water
pressure becomes
the source of happiness
as a broken pipe turns streets to
rivers.
To calculate the life
expectancy of a book
case, to remember terracotta
dreams, to believe
in old-fashioned raindrops,
to imagine pianos
appearing on parade
in other cities, to be
proud not to have gotten
a tattoo in this town
after all
is to be making it
up as I go along.
The back alley becomes
a graveyard
for worn couches.
Nine degrees
doesn’t feel too bad
if I stay away
from bridges and river
banks. Icicles formed
unnaturally still remain
on bare tree branches
in the yard
where firefighters fought
and lost
a year-end battle. A raging one,
it took down
a 100-year-old multiplex
home with pillars.
How can I leave you behind
in a year so scorched?
Give me a sign
that your spirit has made it
through wind chill to now.
More than ready to close
the book
on this year. New cases bought
and assembled. Shelves and volumes
remembered, dusted, rearranged. A new order—but
too much left
unsaid. A beautiful birth, a transformative
death, I stand
somewhere between
living my life.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,600 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 4 years to get that many views.
A weatherman’s heart,
a three-alarm
fire two miles south, the furnace
kicks in, a hiss
that warms, cause
unknown, to kick it
just for today,
let the cat out
the back door, safety
from what you think
you want, draws
to a close.
The dullness
of this count does not mirror
the flash
of metal that cuts longing
into irregular slices
of grief.
No steady hand
can regulate how
it gets measured, how
another day will fold
open with his absence
now ink
that has set into the fibers—
bleeds and all.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 