Tomorrow I will be
a full deck of cards.
I prefer only 8s.
No faces
face up or
face down.
Jokers don’t count
except when weeds
become wild
flowers on honeymoon.
I still pick up
my feet
when I walk—run
mile after mile
timing my way
into the moment
when time floats
off. When everything
before folds into
everything to come.
When endorphins
kick in
at any age,
and lake ice
winks at
the sinking sun.
Inches on a dual scale ruler
splay awkwardly
compared to the centimeters’
compact grid.
So quiet in the cafe,
no eavesdropping
will mark the morning.
Just the sound of
fingertips slamming
MacBook keys, a page
being torn
from an actual notebook,
a ceramic mug gently returning
to the table. My thumb
measures 2 inches, just over
5 centimeters. I can’t decipher
the meaning
in that sliver
of well-worn skin.
Can’t decode
the evolution
of our differences.
The miles or kilometers
that separate our memories.
Those leap seconds
desperately applied
to align
our hearts.
run / hide / fight
the slow dance track plays
no one’s dancing
who remembers how
someone please
let’s build
a skyway to the moon
the weather between
here and there
can tire wings
bend fins
fray tails
someone please
turn off
the piped-in song
cut the bell’s tongue
someone please
let the buskers inside
we have a long way to go
let them sing
of views and the hand
that opens the cage
someone please
A light lilts over
wet roads, the grass
barely covered.
Slow moments,
fast ones, some
carving a channel between.
She doesn’t know which
she wants to set
the rhythm of her day.
It’s not just hers.
Not really hers at all. Gratitude
comes in shades of blue,
or is it green to gold.
Soon, so soon, too soon,
in the dark,
she can’t tell.
“The held breath of the world at 5 pm in winter.”
—Garth Risk Hallberg, City on Fire
She keeps her pockets empty.
Daylight is precious this time of year.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Driverless cars will give the unlicensed permission to feel.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Thick gloves interrupt her thoughts indoors.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The time has come to make room for winter.
She keeps her pockets empty.
A small bird chirps behind a tree trunk.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Everywhere else is too full the day after.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The wind slips through so easily.
She keeps her pockets empty.
The park reopens before dawn.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Some skylines regenerate like livers.
She keeps her pockets empty.
No kangaroo crosses her path or breaks her stride.
She keeps her pockets empty.
When an actor forgets his lines, she remembers how to scream.
She keeps her pockets empty.
Geocachers lose themselves inside a discovered letterbox.
She keeps her pockets empty
to make room for an exhale of visible breath.
what if
tonight’s full moon cracks
spills onto our tree branches
what if there is no moon
at all
ever again
what if an empty room
roars at double the decibels
of a packed music venue
and the voices
are all yours
what if what if
is eliminated
from our vocabulary
and the ?
becomes an earring
you lost years ago
all the answers
might tumble
off the shelf
when you open
the closet door
and the shape of hangers
will signify
our dismay
Check it out:
you can’t fake a fold
when you really crave a cut
or a curve
when wearing earbuds
in a cafe sounds like nonsense
to your unplugged ears
when you see a red sky
at night
not in the morning
when you don’t believe
in worshipping
any trinity
when you wish for a gale
but settle for an exhale
and a scream
from your false vocal folds
becomes the truth
Ten degrees below freezing,
a petticoat of ice forms
along the southern edge
of the pond.
Or is it a lake?
What’s the difference?
Do you make weather, or
does the weather make you?
Ask the ducks and geese.
They know. Why
are they still here?
It’s time for them to go.
Quick, before the first snowfall.
Are you shallow or deep?
Does the light go through you
to the bottom?
A month ago
it was a floral lace slip.
Noon will crush morning soon.
Quick, do you
make the weather, or
does weather make you?
Exposed.
A garbage kiosk
blocks the lower landing.
It’s a long way down. Hardened
debris won’t cushion
the fall. The metallic taste
of words she spits out
lingers on the roof of her
A mannequin in men’s
activewear impersonates
one eighth of an octopus—
the left arm unhinged
and dangling
from a blue checked
jersey sleeve,
extra long.
No beak, no spin, no ink,
no sea, no reason
to trust anything
as it seems. A drawn curtain
means keep out
or keep in.
Not an invitation
to slither through.
Silence coils
a tight spring
under her breath
into an empty lift
she uses to unload
her fear
of continuous loops
and fire escapes.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 