No more talking
about the weather, a giant
dragonfly dangles
from the ceiling
inside a giant
library. Her services
are no longer needed. Justice
will prevail
or fail without her. It’s January—
other topics
can be scarce.
Won’t Go Back to the Cellar
An open safety pin
lies on a sidewalk
sprinkled with snow
as the temperature
plummets. She second
guesses her choice
to leave it there. Questions
the optimism she offered
a stranger last week. A weapon
is a weapon. Drunk
driving is driving
drunk, underage or
over it. If she had
a license, it would have caught
up with her
by now. A sigh
and accelerated pace,
pedestrian reprieves
count just as much.
Juror’s Requiem
Could be small drops
of Eastern European blood
in my veins—a Polish cynic
leaning into the light. Could be
the quiet I seek to escape
into without a translator
to jar me awake. A weekend’s worth
of forgotten dreams and whisperings
sworn on ice
and still
I can’t shake your face
in profile. Presumed innocence
and feature-flattening, color-draining
fear. Your perfectly enunciated
“Thank you!” lifted me
higher than any Art Deco
elevator transporting me
to the top of the Foshay Tower.
It’s a blessing
to choose well.
No Spoiler
If I drove a car, it would
not have one. If
I had a baby, I would
try not to overindulge it.
If I built a cottage
near the ocean, I would
be careful not to ruin
the view. If I knew
the ending to a movie, I would
keep it to myself. If
I had a lover, I would
inevitably do just that
before it went too far.
Unfortunately.
Fever Dreams
Two turtles sleep
at the entrance
to a subway escalator
that only goes
up. Someone says
they’re hung
over. I don’t believe
him. Suddenly they show
their heads, then legs,
then crawl away. End
of scene—onto that subway
I only see
in dreams. Couldn’t recognize
who was riding
with me this time.
Could have been you.
Poetic Laryngitis
No cure till the verdict
is read aloud. Till her juror’s oath
is played out,
even a simple metaphor
can’t be
expressed. Nothing implied. All
images captured
must remain sealed
inside a jar
draped in red linen. Even fresh
rain transforming
into snow won’t force a leak.
Jury Duty
She’ll tell
you all about it
when the seal’s broken.
Channels
This is no Big Sur, Dingle
Peninsula, Wasque—
this is somewhere
in the middle. A river
that has starred
as the main character
in novels, caused cities to be
built, become a final stop
for the tormented
and despairing. It is a river
that should be frozen
by now. That only its fringes
cutting against its banks
are covered in a thin sheet
of ice is another story
that needs to be
told. And I’m no narrator
for the fresh or salt.
Where’s the Frozen River?
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest
the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass
Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice
hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.
REM Kiosk
A dream is only as true
as its recounting. Insert stalks
of wheatgrass embedded
in translucent partitions
for accent. An ocean
spilling forth on all sides
gets pulled inside
out to become a Midwestern
lake not frozen enough
to hold those images
of ice fishers under
glass. You shake
yourself awake
to make up
what you won’t remember
one hour into it.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 