I will be reading some of my poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm. For directions, check out their website: http://www.fireroastmountaincafe.com/
Long into Late Winter
I see it rained, but
I didn’t see it
rain. I’ve been lost
inside warm, closed
rooms of sleep, leaving
a map of dreams
undrawn. When I say
I had none, how
can anyone know
for sure? I reserve
that certain cartography
for these scenes traveling
through my wakeful self—
put into motion
by that Townes Van Zandt
song today. Yesterday,
it might have been yours.
You could look it up.
No Contact Sheet
Sometimes at civil dusk I look
at this grid of six
repetitions of your half-opened
mouth and most
of your face and believe
I have lost
perspective.
Window Washer
It’s not a stone
against this pane.
It’s that blade hitting it—
dirt of my life
dripping down.
Cornered at Espresso Royale
One day this unstable
wooden chair will collapse.
It may be she got her day
dream come true too early.
Can she be
satisfied with these ones
she unpacks now
remaining where they began—
balanced on the teetering
legs of her imagination? One
voice is terrible
beauty enough. Or, grace is
wood turning
to wings at the last
possible moment.
Emily Said It Too
This light has no logic.
It heats up tinted
images of you wrapping
around the walls
inside my solar
of make believe. No outside
truth will seep through
to stain your well-defined
face. The moment talked about,
its contracting destination
point, hangs
in suspension. We
don’t get there
from here. And that word
I meant to say, but
didn’t dare, is the only way
to arrive at your timbre. It’s up
there too, with its swinging “y”
tail making an underline
exclamation beneath
its other three
letters. They’re up
there to whip subtle
movements off
their hinges. Big,
bold, block pronouncements
too heavy not to fall
eventually.
The Sound of Palimpsest
Your handwriting.
His song. My memo
pad. This spiral
belongs to all
of us and no one
can touch it
without losing a grip
on how we get
sequenced
without a true set list.
And still the memorization
gets passed on.
Dog Ear
I am a page torn
but not easily removed
from the journal
you didn’t keep. I’m
a face in the crowd
you can’t look at
but recognize
with your eyes closed. I’m
the book you bought, thought
you’d devour, never read.
I’m the last word
you wish to utter.
I’m that regret.
Tiny Changes at the Last Minute
Accidents no longer
mistakes. Nothing
about buildings or fences,
not another bridge,
a scrap of graffiti rides
out on the 11:45 train. Her net
is small, her heart large. She just wants
to take a closer look
then let you go.
Set Up for Reverie
A hinge creaks, the trap
door swings opens. She passes
through. It’s these details.
They weigh on her. She’s not
catatonic—she just can’t complete her day
dream. She needs to fill in
all the blanks. Where? What
begins in a coffee bar on Hennepin moves
to a Linden Hills basement
to a truck parked
on the street to a pedestrian
bridge over the river. When?
Civil twilight to midnight
with a full moon. What?
An encounter transforms
into a planned meeting
into a passionate charge
down to experience the unforgettable. Why?
Because it’s finally time.
Who? You
would like to know. If
she could just get to the kiss,
she might reveal the shadow
hands pressing against
her hips. Until then,
you can hover overhead.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 