After the Resurrection

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To eat lemon
cake with a spoon,
to dream of walking on
that bridge with you 

(not beneath it
in a tourist vessel),
to be so confident
grace will follow 

is to be willing to go
where there are no
sidewalks and still reach
the hotel before it rains. 

To choose to stay
there instead of in 

a house, to fantasize
about local lobbies 

and dimly lit bars
encased in translucent glass 

and steel where the coffee is
strong and black, to imagine 

the sound of an elevator door
opening at my feet 

is the closest I come to memorizing
the music woven
into the fabric of this chaise
we might share.

Buds

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They’re breaking through.
It feels early. I feel late 

to wake to the songs
everyone else hums. 

I am overripe
to the ones I replay 

because addiction is nothing
if not relentless 

repetition. Will the lyric
alter slightly with this listening 

to make it all about me?
If I can recover 

from the need to be
your you, perhaps you 

will relent—give one
up for me.

Steer Here

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They say be
in the moment.
I say I want to be 

in that moment—that night
three summers ago
on a boat as it changes 

its course beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
Pause into slow turning, live
guitars propel the motion. 

Or that moment after
the boat has docked
on the bank of the Cuyahoga,

the sound of guitars
still rings
in my ears—lips 

on mine before I know
what or who 

is happening. But not that
moment followed by the next
of seemingly unending sea 

sickness on a ferry
as it rocks across
the Aegean. And not that one still 

to come that I cannot
fathom. How do I become
willing to let go of the old rail 

to recognize when another exalted one
might strike? This question hangs
on tight.

Poetry Reading at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe, Sat., April 3

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Amy Nash will be reading her poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm.  The address and website are:

Fireroast Mountain Cafe
3800 37th Avenue South
Minneapolis, MN 55406
www.fireroastmountaincafe.com

The Other Side of Block E

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Multiple star, high
end hotel with its opaque
smoke and mirror 

windows and dark
corridor leading to a bar
she just wants to see 

to steal a setting
for her make-believe
life. She doesn’t wear 

her glasses. She won’t
go inside. Her nearsightedness
leaves her 

outside conjuring
up sidewalk
impressions instead.

Hothouse April

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I collected them
from their metal button holes
in a women’s bathroom stall.
I tucked one 

behind your ear, the other
behind mine. I did what I could
with them: message
in red, in elongated green, 

message in true thorn.
I did
what I could.
Should I have 

taken them
with me when I left
your room at dawn? 

A perfect poem
of the ridiculous becomes
subtle, becomes two roses
crossed on a table 

we left behind
by choice,
we left behind
by choice,
say it twice
for both of us,
for what’s left of them.

Listening to “Sandusky”

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I must learn how
to describe each tiny movement
from solid green to a yellow brushed with red breaking 

into orange without  
these blocks of language. I turn up the volume
when this instrumental plays—sweet 

guitar sings vocal lines, the human voice
at rest. Seductively rich
baritone be still 

for these moments, while I work
on my lesson, a thing I am to practice
with my soul—
without a bridge.

An Exhaling Introvert

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Counts backwards
till she can’t breathe. She pretends
a message will appear 

at zero
on a screen addressed to her
from you. A different kind 

of marring,
you’ll be asking for it.
Hard on the lips, 

her pressure increases
as your resistance
goes down. Exaltation.

Chiasmus

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What if I were the one
standing on a stage—you were
below it, looking up 

at me? If it were as simple
as reversing a spring 

trench coat, we would have pulled
those sleeves through
their fabric-framed sockets 

by now. And, still, these arms
would not be long enough 

to extend my real
offering to you.

Self Curate

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If I were a museum,
I would adopt
the ampersand
before at. Swirls 

of entanglement mean
more to me
than a spiraling into
sense of place. 

If I can’t have home,
I’ll take the plural
loci, the many phases
of identity, the journeys 

over arrival, options
over commitment—
the possibility
of leaning into infinity.