A life to dog-ear,
to return to the moment
without forgetting, to be
so alert
to the music inside
the lines, she asks
you politely, then breathless—
the begging begins.
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.
Common Roots Day Dream
A sip of iced garden
mint chamomile tea
and she wants
to believe in more
than the dead
kit below her building
stoop, the fluid
filling her father’s lungs,
the beautiful five
o’clock shadow
framing your face. Mid-syllable,
she comes to. A trance-induced
dialogue snaps
shut. She blinks. Assesses
her surroundings
with fingertips cooled
by glass perspiration. Who
have I been talking to? She asks.
Who will answer? A murmur
behind a smile and she disappears
through the wall
becomes a door.
Caryatid on Leave
Diffuse
weepers align
with this place where she stood,
held up the world’s concentration,
and sighed.
Not Yet Evaporated
Public agencies to water
lawns in the early hours
before it all rushes
off. Evidence of afternoon showers
completes redundant
circles she dodges
on her walk
home. It was silver puddle
nonsense till
the blood returned.
Beware Fair Cinquain
The swine
show will go on
despite threats of harsh flu.
But she prefers urban rabbits
in parks.
There Are No Wrong Pianos, Vic
Public pianos everywhere—
on the airport baggage
claim level, outside the convention
center entrance, inside the city
center second floor lobby. Where’s the one
to play in open air
in the park under an old elm
near the dandelion
fountain? Not there yet.
Poem
I am a picture
book that dissects
and defies
time. Am also a letter
from one soul
to another written
on an old wooden fence.
It Could Happen
One person’s tomorrow
is another’s yesterday. I could
be another Janus
unable to decide. But
I’d rather be
the seam where it all spills
into now.
Scented Cinquain
Smoke cleared,
the time has come
for her to claim her own
signature fragrance—a rose at
midnight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 