Will she find
shelter for her words,
bed for her enjambment, a bath
for her stanzas. Not
a question–merely
a series of projections
to use
as stepping stones
to reach beyond
memories of rain
pounding on
a roof
to the rhythm
of failed love.
Blazing Darkness in Three Syllables
She will learn
how to locate her
own duende,
so she won’t
have to borrow
yours anymore. And now
she gets
home before dark.
And They Call It Pictionary
Corsages not corsets. Shawls
over the Venus
de Milo. Motel
not hotel. Architect over
poet. Defect without
sheepdogs or
a diaspora.
A clock,
a kite, or a barn. One
last busy signal
before the station
wagon rolls over another
gravel road off
the map. No one shouts
“caryatid”—even
when hitchhikers with 2x4s
return, mumbling,
“It’s just a game.”
George Of Course: Another Cinquain
I weep
each time I hear
my favorite Beatle
who has been gone too long—we don’t
forget.
Library
In bars, on street corners, along
green hill campuses, in dark
corners beneath
office towers, on trains, beside
zoos, buried deep
below backyards, above a murder
of crows, in the palm
of her hand.
Listening to Dr. Dog on the Radio
What if
you never had a broken
heart—no, wait,
I mean bone. What if?
And no stitches
after the wisdom
teeth were pulled. But
back to the heart. Take
care not to break
your soul—those of you
who know
where to find yours.
November 22, 1963: Where Were You?
Fifty years. Before
my time—barely. I was born
into a country
in mourning. Would never
know an innocence
once claimed. Never
know a world without
that eternal flame. Would never
hear that voice, that particular brand
of Boston accent live.
Sixteen grief-stained days
shy of being able to say:
“I was there.”
February 14
The date
rings a bell
in her head. That pattern
of flowers spilled on the street was
heart-shaped.
In Forgetful Snow
Say something
out of bounds. Whisper
prose. Forget
how many lines
are leftover. Make some
more in the cold
night air. February
isn’t as cruel
as April, is it, Mr. Eliot?
Northern
She believes in triangles—
would rather not
triangulate. Hates crowds,
loves New York. Sees
no contradiction. The third
sister balances
textures with the sound
of a quarter moon
hitting the February sky
over Loring Park. What lies between
Minnesota and New England
are all the stories
she has left
to tell.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 