This pink
sky before
twilight touches
a rim no one
sees. To awaken
to 11.11.11
tomorrow will be
her version
of so many
lines fluctuating
against one another.
Pricked by Blue Flowers
Wears out
a pen is
a good sign
was something
she wrote
in a journal
30 years ago
to dig herself
out is still
a message
she can use
to get
your attention
off those dreams
onto hers.
You Said You Had Souls for Sale
I’ll take two—one
for tonight’s winding
down those final shafts
of light. One because
the first could crack
open like a skull
against a ladder. Could be stolen
in that half
hour before sunrise. Could just wear
out. An autumn blizzard
could barricade access. Or
it could be
an addiction
to that fearless insanity to look
a stranger in the eye. Do you make
home deliveries?
New Background
No famous mobile
cutouts on a lawn
will work. A classic dance
piece from 1958
won’t do. None of those
instantly recognizable faces
disturbing the natural
world. Not a mountain—
or cave for gangster ghosts.
The names I know
come from the wrong
household. Your voice
seeps through a vent
beneath the porch.
Meet me there.
aka AA
Turn the lights way down
low—let’s tell ghost stories to the street
lamps outside. I’ve been looking
at those shadows
on your face all my life. It’s time
we should meet.
Speech Therapy
Home is in the pronunciation.
In this silence,
I belong nowhere—everywhere
could be my first word.
Viscose
Footbridges are her chalkboard.
She erases the night
with her tongue. No spitting
allowed. If she could write
like you used to
speak, she’d drop
all R’s
(reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic)
to make room for one long
queue that snakes
along those unmarred banks.
But she just can’t do it.
Any Day Now
Old fillings fall out—old
infatuations rise
up—old habits move
on—old stories settle
in—I’m not so old I can’t tuck
myself into the next
roll over.
This Inventory Is a Lie
I borrowed a list of resentments
from a stranger
on a train. I’m not even pissed
at you for dying. Maybe later.
I was once—angry—when
you accused me
of starving
myself. But even that rocking
is an empty dinghy
beneath the old drawbridge—
no sail, no wind.
The Eve
She wears
no mask to honor
those dead—in her own
voice. A preoccupation
with cemeteries may end
tomorrow. Or her identity
will be revealed
by other naked means.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 