Drops of blood
from an orange awaken
her to choosing. She occupies
the end table because
it’s open. Clean glass
window walls corner
her to be
free to search
an after five
sky. Her findings
will be cataloged
off site.
But One of the Seven Wonders
Won’t be lit up
with LED lights
after civil twilight dies
another daily death. Tomorrow’s
reincarnation won’t be
so famous if Crash
has his way. And we all do
when we speak
the repurposed truth
at the mouth
of some river
or bottom of a canyon
no one remembered
to name.
Not One of the Seven Deadly
I would not drive
on the tracks, would
not question the bottle
of French deodorant or bathroom
caulking if asked. If not,
I would leave it
to winter saints
to return the red
dagger signs.
Pavilion Raising
Inflatable buildings
mean nothing
to me. I’ve seen domes
cave under
the weight of too much
winter. Not enough
poses other problems.
To breathe deeply
without fear
of implosion
requires no posing.
No temporary shelter
could hide
this metamorphosis.
Another Version of Three Loves
I steal. It’s my nature. No license.
So I will count three loves
although there have been
so many more.
Lover #1 had no licenses. Didn’t need
one to play guitar. He jumped
off a stage to kiss me. But there were
so many more.
Lover #2 was made of glass
and tall and straight
and bottomless, which was
the little problem that became
my big problem along with
so many more.
Lover #3 is a secret
especially to me. I’m told
to pray and he will come. But
I only half believe. I worship
the moon, and she has no time
for such nonsense.
So no more.
Say Silver Not Gray
Some words open
too wide to be
swallowed without
choking. I’ve
choked enough to last
into my next
life. It could happen—but
probably not
to me. Once. Who
really knows. Best
to stick with a metallic
beauty and let
urges stew.
No More Bloomingdale’s Minnesota
In closing, some stand back
in their standard poses,
others have taken
the fall into a pile
of limbs and tiny torsos. All
white-washed and naked
and smoothed over and buckled
under the expanse
of gray carpet
in an empty showroom
where the sales fell
short. Where they go
next is a recycler’s dream
I hope to have tonight.
Speaker Less Easy
These legs ache
from the act of hauling
the memory
of his voice and brilliant
wisecracks out my door, down
the back stairs, to the alley
dumpster. Done. I lean
these old wooden idols against the iron
base on wheels. I believe
in the potential to recycle
everything—the divers will come
out tonight. I wear this stiffness
as a badge of endurance. You
threw out mine almost as soon
as you heard it
in an age before reuse.
No More Hints
Strong evidence
of tobacco use on the corner
outside the library. I should
know. Have checked out
for five all but one
year of my life
in this town. A red
Q on this book
cover is no longer
a question. Quality days
begin to stack up
against an invisible wall. Collections
have their place. I don’t
miss the smoke.
No Bus to Abilene
Welcome to your usual
table by the window, to a few
stories behind the Soo Line
clock on the corner. Welcome
back diamond-shaped
laughter without a live
audience. The flowers
you ordered for your mother
should arrive in time
to whisper one more welcome
before walking through
another open door.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 