Who waits
for the river
to rise rises
above reds
to reach clay
tinted sky. Who
runs from dry
spells into March
gusts and shifted
light shifts
with each new
calibration.
This window
then that becomes
highlights for whomever
remains.
1963
He was minus three
when those songs from heaven
were playing on
AM radio. I was zero.
When he was zero, I was
in Northern Illinois
learning how
to say three instead
of free.
I would never be
so much so again. No multiples
will return me
to that coincidence—one
he’ll never know.
Graffiti Blues
Dark lipstick stains
on the rim
of a coffee mug, a juice
glass, cigarette
filter, napkin, so far
from the neighborhood
of your lips—they can’t be tagged.
Duplicate Triplicate
Equivocation—poetry
in strong,
skilled hands, mud
in most. Who am I
to seek twins
standing up to one another
in this historic park?
Who do you think
you are to judge
my choice of wrapping
through another stretch
of drizzle? Who
do you think I am
when you gaze this way
that way? Who
do I think you are
when I forget
what I might say
to you under its grip?
I’m thinking
fraternal ones
and three grown
sisters, one
weirder than the next.
Clutching Tags
Aphasia is anonymous
in its demand
that poems be
written
without words.
I’m not ready to give
mine up. The wave
of an ampersand
ropes them in
just in time.
Tags Along
Methodist metronome
middle age middle C
mill Minneapolis
Minnesota Minnesota
River minor
deity Mississippi
headwaters Mississippi
river monk
monosyllables moon
moon cup moonless mosaic
tile mother
moths motion mount
mountain mountains
mouth muddy water
multimodal murmur
trestle muse muses
nagahyde naked
apes New England New
Haven New Jersey New
Jersey Shore New
Jersey Transit New
Orleans new soul new
wine New York New York City New
York fire truck New
York subway Newark
Airport newborn
Nick Drake
Nicollet Mall Farmer’s
Market night night
club North Atlantic North
Clark Street northern
Minnesota nostalgia
nudes nymphs
obsession.
Staged and Charged Up (Day 2,669)
No photos ever of me
in Brooklyn. Some in Queens—
an Astoria fourplex with unfinished
hardwood floors. Manhattan all over beginning
inside the helm of the Flat Iron.
The Bronx north of 232nd Street indoors
and out. Even one on Staten Island before
dashing across the Verrazano Narrows
Bridge. Where did they go? I know
they were taken
by the tiny broken locks
in my soul.
But I can’t end
on that—I’ll be the one
stealing, not having earned
the right to mention it—
the soul that is.
Fragile Spring: A Ghazal
On quiet nights, fear makes me fragile.
Every damn sneer makes me fragile.
I just might break beneath my own breath
because what I hear makes me fragile.
Last year’s leaves rattle along the branch.
What’s no longer here makes me fragile.
Brief rains promise to reveal our aches.
The sky becoming clear makes me fragile.
Ice remains stubborn on the park’s pond.
Touching what is near makes me fragile.
Some animals won’t make it to spring.
Losing what is dear makes me fragile.
She’s a Liar
The only part that’s true
is
the river. It rushes in
an early thaw. She walks down
to the rhythm
of let’s pretend
he sees it too, his boots
hitting her off
beat just so. Someone might walk
this way down
there to make an honest woman of her. How
would she know?
Fragmented
Sappho’s poems. Nick Drake’s last
songs. Tiger reserves. My memories, his,
that pier over bay
water. A hearse afloat. The underside
of a bridge. One car
on a train crossing
this river. The moon
most nights. Your love.
My faith. The sky itself.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 