Do you say aeon or eon
or æon—how to merge
the “a” with the “e” with the hand.
It’s not the building
but what I see from the building
that pauses me
to wipe the clock.
Choker
She gives herself whiplash—
not a car in sight. Traffic
jams inside her head.
Who Is This Pedestrian
Because she hates to see questions
in writing, I invert
my queries into rhetorical
curves. Because she was told
never to use because, I defy
some Ohio law. Because
he refuses to believe
in prepositions piling up
on over themselves, I watch
language wreck itself
from the passenger window.
And I refuse to be so definite
as to be the driver. I act on a passive
tendency to walk on—don’t I?
Traction Conversion
Echoes from last week’s conversation,
a speech delivered
on a candy dish a week ago, a small stone dropping
into the river before
I was born. As my body becomes less
elastic, other tolerances may
snap to. I may not
be able to turn my head to the left so easily,
but I could trust
he’ll be there to catch me or be
my eyes. Only the stone
can say for sure.
In Situ
A regatta underway in ditch water,
the wind changes direction
just in time. To survive the melt
without damage is no small act. Welcome
to the drip age. From it, drought isn’t a life
saver. Water—too much— not enough—can kill. When
this planet gets the DTs,
it’s all over but the quakes.
Johnny Becomes You
No one else called you Lester. No one knows
I broke your typewriter—
save you. Who will
call me
Esther now? I see the jumbled
mass of timber holding up the Grain
Belt billboard sign. It doesn’t change
even when the river below breaks
open its mid-sigh
pause after months
of near death
threats. This city moves
to a different cadence
in a dye color you and I
could never find
for that windbreaker
that got left behind. On a wooden stoop
behind a cobbler’s shop.
Everybody’s got to work.
The banging has stopped
for you. For me, I’m left holding
jokes no one else gets—inside out.
When She Wears Her Name Inside Out
I see her eyes
in the actor’s face. If
looks could give birth
to laughter, labor
would begin in hidden
murmurs there. The joy
is in riding
the Staten Island Ferry
come winter or late
fall. No one falls
in tonight. No swim will refresh
our thoughts. Lonely and lovely
dance on the deck
under a civil twilight sky.
Johnny Nolan Died: A Found Poem
Three days later. Can’t sing anymore.
An uncle’s ashes scattered
from the Statue of Liberty. Nightmares
in daylight, cross out drunk—
write down sick. Expected rescue
does not come. Nothing
is wasted in this world—is a lie. A lump
of cold damp earth
in her hand. To the edge, she closes
her eyes, opens her hand. Thin
tinkle of a mandolin makes
a sad sound. Not from the common
cup—not Johnny.
Note: Contains phrases found or inspired by Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
News of Her Daughter
And how do you know this text
message is just for you? Viral
newsletter, false sense
of value, hope in a reconnection
smashed against LED flashes
of recognition—you are not
the only one. Nothing personal.
Nothing to take at all.
(Day 3,014)
Beware ice beneath
the door mat. She
may knock you
down with newly retrieved
self-confidence. When it’s this cold,
the surreal slips inside
cracks in doors, walls,
boots, skin. Water is
life or death—depends
on perspective. More
life, she thinks, when she keeps
her balance across thresholds.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 