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.
Even if she did eat
pears, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He still would have expected
love too soon. Would still be drinking
too much
red wine strangely chilled
to notice how
she devours green apples.
The last word
appears suddenly, strikes
like lightning
without any thunder
no matter
how long I count.
Why count the piled-up
hours of grief? As I get closer
to our number 8—
another day
in the last month
of a depleted year—
I realize even tipped
on its side,
its resemblance
to infinity
is a mirage. Even 8
is not immortal.
A cold apartment
is a cold apartment
regardless. If
the boiler
that generates heat
within is broken,
the answer
is not to smash
potted plants
onto the sidewalk. It’s not
the stoop’s fault.
The labor of breathing
without gasping
through these hollowed-out
days. The fear
of never being able
to recite the Serenity Prayer
again because of the way
the throat closes shut
before “grant me”
can escape. Just one more
bear hug, one more laugh
over lost cookies, one more
email exchange, just one
more hand squeezing, one
more simultaneous gazing
at the same full moon
while standing thousands of miles
apart, one more walk
side by side
would not be enough.
I surrender to this
grief and put my trust
in the wind still blowing
from those resilient wings.
Death’s got nothing
on them.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 