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.
Wadsworth Falls, CT
Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water
fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath
one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.
Toughened or Tempered
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Odds Are
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Weather Extreme Cinquain
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 