Saturday morning ginger
essence on my skin
to keep me eager
without doom, a cat scratch
scar on my ring finger
print that won’t quite heal
is no stigmata.
A tiny smear
of blood on paper
doesn’t speak
in any tongues. Aroma
therapy is no joke.
Whose Gingerbread
Do they remember
months after the solstice? Who
will speak
for you tomorrow morning
before strange fog
clears? Tonight this parade
answers no questions.
Pore
She peels
an orange in the rain.
The scent remains
on her skin into civil
twilight. Her orange
raincoat fits perfectly
across her shoulders—winter
only seven days away. The color
of any aroma captures
her eye when she stands
still long enough to open
anything blocked.
Ecliptic
“the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not”
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, from “Frost at Midnight”
I get confused about red. Is it
a door, pair of jeans, or a flashing
light I want to guide me
toward the darkest day? Again, the longest night will stretch
into that moment
of optimism when all shrinking
is done and I can almost imagine
the view from the sun.
The 6B
Get on the bus—then get off.
Plan aborted, a walk
in a circle is
one answer. No one else picks
through racks in a dress
boutique to break
her stride. Six degrees
not of separation, but of burn
then numbness
if she waits
for another one too long.
Glare
To panic about ice
yet to form, comments yet
to be made, technology
yet to break down,
a Coleridge poem printed
and not read
is to be most afraid
of how serendipity dances
across pavers—
cracked or not.
Whatever It Takes
If I had a drawer
filled with aging apples
to sniff, I might not need
to repeat the word
rosewater
into the stagnant air.
Might comprehend narrative
in its raw state.
Sandy Hook Light
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Wonders
Reading done with mirrors
is a backwards art
I fear
learning. When self-reflection
becomes an obsession, it’s time
to stop
paying the electric bill. Time
to flip
all letters hanging in suspension.
Vampire Poet
She is one—or
thinks she is. That blood
on her chin
is really ink she stole
from your pen. See how perfect
diamonds have been cut
out of the pages
to your book of musings. Don’t laugh—
she might get away with it.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 