Not tripping
under ladders, the girl
wears lips
on a t-shirt, men
block the entrance
to anywhere
she might want
to pass through
to escape hidden
meanings—but
there were none.
Blind Pouch
An old air
stream on a newly paved
driveway, a red pickup
like the one I imagined
I would own
one day. Still unlicensed
and not ready
to relinquish
sidewalks, I hug
the side of the road
and think
of the mystery
left in this escape.
Bath
A tree house built
upon itself
without a trunk
to hug. Painted white,
it becomes a crow’s
nest for spying
those moving
things in the grass. Or,
just blades
someone might make
music with—someone
who no longer lives
in the brick house
on that acre
of land missing a tree.
Down Cellar Stairs
Someone has written
the inconvenience of death
in my handwriting
on the fence. Accidental
rhyme brings me closer
to a private hilarity. To laugh
at my own
impatience jumbled
in a dryer
with my hesitation—
would I be any
more ready?
Ashes East
She can catch the train
at the next station down
the line. Still sit forward
and watch future
vistas become now.
A national cemetery with endless
rows of evenly spaced
headstones. The mother’s there
and the father she never knew. But
not the son.
Marbles—and a Little Bit of Dirt
He became a doll
she left in the rain.
The way his lips
and brows faded, his eyes
continuing to stare
at the cleared morning sky,
or her when she stood
over him. She didn’t care.
And now when she does,
it’s too late. He won’t smile—
they’ll never kiss again.
No Scaffold
A man on stilts
is busy doing his best
to convince passersby
to rethink the glass
wall. I walk
by a sign for free
smells—wonder how
many grams of fat
per sniff. I’m going to stand
taller when I inhale
that deeply.
Or Go Swimming
Three red chairs
tied together with gold
twine put her to sleep.
Rejuvenated driftwood
can split dreams
into chapters
she might remember
to revisit. Or
she might float.
Vista
To laugh at serious
windows is
to forget
how I love
running on sand
dunes before dawn.
First Monday in Summer
I drink hot
coffee in the rising
heat to cool
off. It works
the way no liquid could
when I was
drunk. When I would use
any day of the week
during any season
as an excuse. But nothing
can stop me
from memorizing
the long light of now.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 