What was once a blush
you so eagerly sought
to induce has become
a flush
into my middle
age. The gap has been shrinking
steadily for nine years. I hope to catch
you in another nine. Grief—nothing
embarrassing about it.
Peony
Acacia or yellow
tulips won’t do. Lime
blossoms too much, bellflowers
not enough. No,
I choose you
because it was the heat
rising from my throat
across my cheeks
to my ears
that he wanted
to generate.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Our Saudade
It revolved around Boston,
the Cape, Amherst, the Vineyard, Woburn,
an entire state—
our common ground. You—
with your accent and clearly delineated roots. Me—
with a brief history,
my mother’s story, and an incurable longing
no word in English
could contain. All of our plotting
and heightened talk went nowhere beyond
imagination. Now that I know
you are back home, I’ll fly
East so we can finally spend a moment
together on this sacred turf. You—
ashes. Me—alive
more than ever, ready to be enough
for the both of us.
This Is My Apology to the World
Force of habit that I keep talking
to him even if he has not responded
in more than a quarter century. Dead
for nearly a decade. Sorry
for this latest obsession
and the way I write around it
in circles, never piercing
the heart so I can move on.
This isn’t an amends. I see no curve
in the road, no opportunity to make a U-turn. No desire. No plea
for forgiveness. A status update—
nothing more.
Rumble Strip
For non-drivers a dead man’s
curve exposes an inner belt
deep within. Just as suddenly,
just as lethal, just as exhilarating
for the survivor. But I
don’t know if I should accelerate
around this grief.
A Darker Pomegranate
I collect dates
as if they were door
handles. Seek the perfectly shaped one
to build a saudade
life around. Your birth, or death,
or the afternoon you got divorced—
it could be one of those.
But I choose to lock
my eyes on a calendar
with the first day of school
circled in red. Tuesday,
September 2nd, 1980. You looked right
in red. Let the vintage ink
smear. Now I will too.
Green Wave
If I could reduce the number
of times a day I believe
I’m a fraud.
Could understand why
some love objects get
labeled the Symbol,
others the Story—never
the End. If you could still
talk, would you tell me
the truth? Did you think
I was a virgin? Could you tell,
or did the blushing
camouflage fact,
heighten fiction’s glow?
If death has not rendered you
speechless, please spill
your signal over this chorus
chanting me home.
45
My mother could replace the broken
record, not my broken
heart. No one stepped on it—I
was born this way.
Is There Internet Where You Are?
Yes, I do this thing to live
life twice.
To get a second chance
to say
the right thing, glance
at you
from the right angle,
take charge
when you hesitate,
lean back
in silence when it’s your turn.
I’ll learn to accept all these
little deaths
when you show me how in the next
revision.
Civil Delusion
Humor me—let’s pretend
you’re not dead. I’m young
enough to think I can still
drink. To believe you
think about me 30 minutes
before dawn, 30 minutes
after dusk. Not all promises
will be broken. You’ll make me laugh
more than cry. And I’ll see
that ridiculous smile,
those chuckling eyes,
when I can’t stop
writing these poems
about a dead man.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 