a dark place
with all the lights out
the death of dictionaries
leaves me empty
afraid to speak
more afraid not to
a dark place
where Steely Dan plays
on the radio
and I’m too numb
to change
the station
who listens
to the radio anymore
who listens
for the train
that already disappeared
down a tunnel
darker than the dark
I go to
I find the king
of hearts I never knew
I was looking for
over the hill
beneath the pines
he’s face down
on the paved trail
not in the road
where that unidentifiable dead
animal has melded
into the pavement
I almost don’t bother
but can’t resist
I pick him up
without knowing
what I have in my hand
without caring
where he’s been
I flip him over
without looking for
the others
don’t need a full deck
I’ll be 52 soon
Yo, Brooklyn! Oy, Manhattan!
An elevated freight railway into the High Line.
An underground trolley terminal
could become the LowLine.
Remember the waterfall
under the Brooklyn Bridge.
You’re so left-handed,
just drop the ball
and run. No amount of FoMO
will catch you if
you avoid the beaten
pathology. If you find yourself
lost in your favorite urban
wilderness, look for
that Swedish Cottage
where marionettes reign.
Living a few moments
with strings attached
could help you locate
your next experience.
If you find yourself lost
anywhere near
the finish line,
dig out that chalk,
draw a new line.
No one mispronounces her
name the way she wishes.
No habit defines her perfectly.
Except solitude
as it gets tucked inside
the boots of a crowd.
She tells the truth
because she forgets
her lines again.
Going off
script is an addiction
she confesses
at the least possible
moment before boarding
a plane heading east.
When she arrives,
she will plant wisteria seeds
in your bower.
Will ignore the danger
that comes
from knowing you
may not Google yourself,
but she will.
1. Multiverse
Who left the light on
after the big bang?
Who slammed the gate
and left a noise
swinging loose
on its hinge?
Is your world
leaking into mine?
I hold out
a bucket to capture
our future before
it escapes again.
2. Zeal
When she sees their faces touch
cheek to cheek, clenched
to scratched, she gives
the color green
an unnatural boost
toward a grayed-out sky.
When they say they don’t care,
she knows it’s a lie.
People in the limelight
can’t tell the difference.
That’s a question. Who still says
limelight is another.
She walks a twisted path
along a chalk cliff spine.
As night falls, her natural glow
turns mysterious and inside out.
how many times
can she knock a figure
off a pedestal
put it back up there
knock it off again
before it shatters
into a thousand tiny shards
of notes and skillfully rhymed words
before a sliver
of a G Major chord
blinds her left eye
before she can run
along a bridle path
free of all champing
and desire
to play with marble
and steel strings
Time to stop
memorizing erased lines.
Forget borders to red
and gold memories
of events
she didn’t experience.
No one did,
or no one’s admitting
anything. Brown
branches claw their way
through a charcoal sky
to the other side.
And she kisses drizzled air,
so relieved to live
where four seasons
dare to break through.
She keeps writing
the wrong year
at the top of blank pages.
The one before this one.
She faces a white wall.
Imagines climbing it
to come home. An ache
from the strain burns
deep inside her thighs.
A PJ Harvey song
floats through her.
She’s a poet now.
A strengthening wind
cuts a metallic sky.
A sickness coats every strand
of thought, patch
of skin. Longing spreads
in square feet
across the poorest fen
to her heart. The ruler
she measures it with
smells like black honey,
sounds like Chopin
vodka bottles being pulled
from a bed of ice.
Or nothing at all
like it—
nothing at all.
Set me on fire
to awaken dormant seeds
to a hidden life.
These trees do not tell
the truth
I can whisper to you.
I am my own invasive species
waiting to be reduced
to carbon and ash.
Someone tell me
where I can find the map
to my true water regime.
I wait in rushes
for the right one
to unroll at my feet.
The one that will lead
to a mire
native to my heart.
A dab of red
paint or polish
left on a wooden
four-top. Glossed over,
she refuses to be
completely forgotten.
None of them says
good-bye. They just leave
a trail of phantoms
with black
(and blue)
nails and lips.
She doesn’t ride
the train with any of them.
One drowned
in his own
swimming pool
(no vomit)
like a chipmunk
or rolling stone
or unidentified man
seeking a closer look.
She swims
in oceans
and tidal straits.
Always hated baths.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 