Scotch on the rocks—the ice
sculpture would have lived
on for months
up here. Someone decided
it was time
to get smashed
under this loading dock
where caterers lock down.
Into the Lens
A waking smirk paints her face
young. Her daydreams
have become pages
from old journals ripped
out, restacked, sewn
back together
in an order she believes
would have sustained
such animation. Plagiarizing is
alright as long as she
doesn’t plagiarize
herself. But it’s too much
work to steal from others. That look
is for no one—now it belongs
to these worn-down back streets.
Peel Away
She lives
in a land
of layers/she wants
to break
free from
cumulative
strength. Why
can’t her own
skin be enough?
Pulling them apart,
flattening
them with an old press,
she wants plains
and straightaways
to be enough
poetry to land on.
Weathering Rock
To fall down
the rabbit hole
of regret is
to roll in Georgia red
clay mud without
remembering
it was once dirt.
It will be
again. To sidestep
and walk quickly by
is to begin to accept
rain without pretending
you can predict the depth
of its source.
Not a Thief/A Thief
A tiny stuffed brown
bear in the snow
in the city, she rescues it
because
even inanimate ones need
shelter. Or, because
she can’t erase the concrete
image of careless
disregard, active
rejection. She wants to build
a story from repurposed pieces
of lives she’ll never know.
She’s willing
to make it up.
She accepts her shortcomings
with plot, character,
continuity, a driving force.
She believes the tiny blue
eyes and red inverted umbrella
mouth stitched in
will be enough
of a lyric to loop
into a rhythm of how things
get dropped, picked up, and
passed along—or pocketed
for later use.
Long Player
Cover the Murmur
railroad trestle in snow, it is still
going to be there. Look up
my sleeves—nothing
hidden but a dusting
of time on my forearm,
a ring of vinyl never played
around my wrist. That I like the old
photographs printed and mounted
over song is a symptom
not the disease, and one
of the best ones I’ve got.
aka (Day 2,649)
She thinks she hears
a confident blues
guitar play across
the alley. Or,
she may have just read
a caption to a movie—
it’s come down to subtitling
her own language again.
This Is That Wednesday
No smudge for me.
I don’t succumb to that
ritual anymore. I like
to keep my soul
anonymous.
I’ve forgotten how to walk
down city sidewalks marked
on the outside.
What if someone calls
my name before
I’m ready? I see one, then two,
then remember. A film
maker calls himself
a freak for wearing a perfect cross
shape. But mine were always
spills—stamping
my forehead off center.
in medias res redux
Don’t cut your hair, pull a cap
over the lengthening. Invoke
one ghost and two
other legends still kicking
around what haunts them
at night when stairs are steep,
a cellar two stories deep. Narrative
or none, consistent not
likely, they do what they want. I
see you do too and so much younger. You
may catch up to the age
of your soul, but not yet.
E-missive (Day 2,646)
Without sound, how
do I know
what you mean
when you write
the letter K, when
you sign off with a see
you later? How
much later? I can’t see
your face—but you
never did give away much
with your eyes. Only
the tone holding
up or forcing down
the timbre in your voice
could begin to reveal
what I wish to know.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 