Deep beneath rhythm’s
crust, a bubble of sound
bursts open. A slow seep
to the surface then a widening
slick spreads across the lake.
Without a bridge,
the song finds its own
shape—becomes
its own Helicon mystery.
Hermetic Cloche
He hides his words
inside a Mason jar. Thinks
no one will see him
peel them off
his tongue with sugar-tongs,
slip them in, screw it
shut. Nothing to do
with lisps, though he had one.
Outgrew it the way
he outgrows you
and your sea glass
smooth voice. No air
in or out. His own breathing
drained of sound
the way an alarm
clock inside
a sealed bell jar
won’t wake you up.
Endangered, Threatened, or of Special Concern
Sitting in a roadside cafe waiting
for the other
shoe to drop. My older sisters
tossed their sneakers
(probably red)
out the station wagon window.
Rumor was they blamed me
when our mother found out.
I was under one. Both my sisters
are older. I don’t always achieve
economy
of words.
Usually know where
the action lies. Avoid
the passive
voice. Most of the time.
It can be heard
from the other side
of the highway. A distant sound
to be avoided
by truckers and young women
on the loose. Facts lie more often
in spring. Be careful. The other
shoe might become
a lady’s slipper.
A New Layer
Discovered in Earth’s mantle. What
would it take to leave
the troposphere
for the stratosphere
for the mesosphere? All the way
to the thermosphere. What
about the pauses between? What
do I really know
about my own epidermis,
dermis, hypodermis? What
if I discovered a hidden layer
in there? Would you come
looking for me there?
Thaw Clause
Frozen shut for months,
a gate begins to swing. She swallows,
breathes in warming air. Time
to speak up again. Letters taste as foreign
as rusted hinges
and shallow pools
of sweet brine. So many alphabet
flavors to acquire.
Another Day in March
I’m having your
miscarriage is the worst
song title since the one
that begins
dyslexic. Sometimes I do
the math. To torture
myself, yes, but more
to torture the memory
of a daughter (not son)
that never got constructed
to be forgotten. I carry
this bus transfer
from a Monday morning
in March with me
in my purse to be
a birthday card
to my 23-year-old child.
To be memento mori
for you and me.
End of Winter
The hot
water gushing
from the ceiling
for example. Artificial
tears from a tiny
squeezable
bottle. The expiration
date tattooed
on her hip. No
one checked there.
The Mind Is a Dangerous Neighborhood
Don’t wake
the monster inside.
Quiet as you go. Don’t feed
the geese on the pond
behind the castle
where the monster lives.
They’ll get used
to it. Demand more.
Ever been pecked
or bitten into submission?
Nothing fun
about it. If your wrist aches
from sleeping on it
funny, spend your waking
days doing something funnier
than planning
your own wake
with the sound on mute.
You Always Win
“Living it up
at the Hotel
California” tortures her
with gray
memories. She’ll blame
it on the antihistamines.
The way coffee appears
in that translucent cobalt
blue mug. The way
each word laid down
suddenly looks foreign
to her eye. Backwards
is an unwanted side-to-side
motion she has no rudder
to stabilize.
She doesn’t purchase
the wobble
board. Gets no purchase
behind the joke.
Hypochondria never
took off
so gracefully. Never
mind the landing.
Just Another New Dog Exercise
When the sequence
of events leading to your NDE
gets fuzzy,
you may think
you are cured. A sore
arch and bruised
thigh don’t need to sound
off uninterruptible alarms
when you know
their origins. Never mind yours.
His. Ours. Endings.
Just the facts.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 