A lull toward late
fall, messages arrive
scrambled. Those born
on the light shrinking side
of winter solstice
carry an extra
burden. We must generate
an expanding light
from within. And it just might
illuminate the shoreline
for those of us now walking
the boards in the afterlife.
Inside the most exquisite
mausoleum ever built
this side
of the Mississippi,
a door to the sunken
garden slams shut
without help
from human or wind.
As I admire the rose
onyx floor with my fingertips
and follow the wedge
of light to its source
(perfectly angled skylight)
above, I wonder if
ghosts monitor
both descents and ascents.
A thumbprint
is something to behold
until it is all
you are. Head, shoulders,
widening tie. Identity over
unity, you cannot fathom second
person plural, can no longer tell
the difference between
a swirl and recoil.
Less than a month to prepare
for a stretch
of 960 moments
that have lost
their luminescence.
I pick up
a flashlight and laugh
at the minor beam
I try to control. Dream
of a lighthouse
freed of its hurricane
ravaged land guiding me
to a place where he’ll be
walking on reconstructed boards
to the rhythm of the tide,
beckoning me
to catch up to him.
On this
election day
I break the golden rule
that poetry and politics
don’t mix.
Counting
days since you died
maps a steady rhythm
to follow as I breathe through this
dense grief.
When I can’t recognize
the taste of my own
name on the tip
of this inherited tongue.
When water terrifies
but is the only way.
When light’s brilliance
before death
takes me by the hand.
When I’ve got no place
else to go,
the rhythm of you
remains—you
big ole’ muddy river.
A misty morning embraces
October’s auburn to tawny prairie
grass that rims my city
pond beneath smoke
white skies. How can I ignore
the beauty
in change
even if death
is involved?
And time to put away
the dresses, seal
windows shut, remember
my stupid hat and gloves
and the fastest route
through the largest skyway
network to a view
of the river
where grief can flow.
The morning after
it all, I wonder
when, where, how
it will emerge.
When will
the aftershocks
of his death cease?
Where did
the bagpiper go,
where should
those empty shells
from the gun salute go?
How will
I know
this is
the new normal?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 