The interrupting
cow doesn’t eat
meat or drink
milk or mean
to be so rude.
Thoreau Said It
“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.
Summer Solstice Cinquain
Opens
early to light
to spread it out longer
than any other—bleeding to
the night.
There’s That Date Again
June 12. But
who cares? She’s
getting on a plane
to leave these twin towns
tomorrow. New York
stories spoken—not
sung. Recover—not
disappear. A Flatiron
Building—not the Flats.
The Hudson and the East—not
the Cuyahoga. And
she’ll cross
the Mississippi, but
she’ll be back.
Our Trespasses
Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns
the land. Who
owns you—precious
liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s
an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop
you up—but
I won’t buy.
Sets Her Right
She almost settles
for a blank page. At the last
minute, she drops
ink—no coloring
inside or outside
the lines. There are none.
Just a geometry
of faith in some kind
of muse. Be it green-tinted
goslings growing by
the second in the grasses
along Lake of the Isles. Or,
some other miracle
still capable of bursting
on the scene upon our poor
wearied planet.
She Becomes
a solitary woman
in an Edward Hopper painting. A silhouette
on an empty
bed, she gazes out an open
window in a New York City
five-story, walk-up. Hair pulled
into a dancer’s bun, dressed
in a pale peach nightgown. Bare
thighs—this is not
loneliness. She becomes
in awe
of herself
and the world
in early morning.
Night Lane Closures
Could be left,
could be right. Before
or after the rain. Ambiguous
warnings are not ambivalent
flashes. Torches puncturing
the dark sky to beckon
and repel
with equal force. And
detours don’t reveal
themselves so easily.
Rockford, IL
She moves not
just faster but
better when
she doesn’t know
the time. Forecasts
or predictions or
guesses or could be
wishes. A continuum
that ties her
to a fence
just like the wooden
plank one
those boys affixed
her to when
she was three. She couldn’t
tell time
then—was she free?
Not that Kind of Screed
Again, she quickens
her pace so those footsteps
don’t overtake her. A rhythm
so familiar. Turning
a corner doesn’t shake them.
She dashes across the intersection
sporting a strip
club posing as a cabaret
and a parking ramp—still
she can hear them. Ten
more blocks, she can’t take
another moment. It’s the kiss of road
death, but she looks over
her shoulder anyway. Nothing
but the echo
of her own feet. Not even
her shadow this time.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 