The left hand competes
with the right
to give you the definitive
signal. Time out. No longer
a snorer. The quieter the room,
the greater the tension
of finger mirroring finger,
thumbs pressed to white.
Ferried
A violent thought drives
him to grab
the nearest railing
so he won’t spill
himself onto the deck.
The calm water
is a song
he wrote before he knew
how to speak
to women with mouths
like hers. White knuckles
and wet wrists, he remembers
now. Oh, that’s right.
Lead Sinker Brain Brats
To float is not
always the goal.
Some air bubbles
burst for no reason.
On those nights, I let go
of my need to follow the moon.
Double-Sided Clock
I rearrange the furniture
in my head
to clear a path
to that alcove
of possibility. Poetry is
wayfinding
written in Braille
with lemon rind
and a candle burning
at each station.
Take No Heroes Hotel
Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs
the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story
lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies
of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below
erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.
Traffic Calmer
This solstice is
a cul-de-sac.
I don’t mind losing
my way—no longer ten
miles north of Boston
wondering how houses
and whole streets
can disappear. It only gets lighter
from here, and there’s always
a way out
at that least
likely radius.
Bottom Virtually
A skyway floor
tiled in original Lego
red and gray.
Another covered
in carpet patched
together with black
duct tape—I make my connections
above vehicular fray
seamlessly. New patterns
will arise if we can bounce
off the darkness
into true winter
without misfiring.
Another Lyric Skyway
A real concert
harpist plays beneath
a giant atrium
sculpture with strings
attached. I’ve lived
all these years
with a mannequin—
not a marionette. I have
a cousin who mistakes live
women for the ones without
strings. Someone’s father
worked in a plastics factory
where they manufacture
the ones frozen
in poses. I can’t
draw one—but I could place
a cutout replica
in a jar and wait
to be surprised.
Tap Root
I will not ride
a horse down a busy city street,
won’t make it home
before dark. Sky drama
comes in many colors—iron and bronze
in this civil
twilight. And they sound
more brilliant
than I remember in December’s cold air.
Cold Knoll
If it’s truly darkest
before the dawn and you are
on the other side waiting to be
born, I will not hang
my head low
these long nights. Will dig
a flashlight
out of a dumpster
to shine a beam
on the word
trust
before it’s too late.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 