She’ll tell you
she doesn’t need
room. Let it spill
over. And she won’t be
lying. Desire
fills a different vessel
now—it comes
with wings.
Winter Reds
Problems
with skin and boots
and the lights flicker off—
on again like below zero
sunshine.
May I Have My Book Back?
No longer his
birthday, she can
relax for another
364 days. If only
it were a leap
year. She might use
that extra 24 hours
to practice forgetting
who he ever was.
2013 in review
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2013 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,400 times in 2013. If it were a cable car, it would take about 40 trips to carry that many people.
Another Cinquain in Which a Minneapolis Girl Without Wheels Contemplates 2014
No more
excuses left—
Saint Paul here she comes now
riding the Green Line LRT
at last.
Don’t Take a Souvenir Cinquain
Flashing
red and white light
above wild clay cliffs
will fade to memory without
rescue.
Past Winter Solstice
Two days into shrinking
night, photos get touch
screen silently taken
in the clouds. Who visits
the creation museum? A myth
is born. A 25-year-old
portrait painting comes alive
in a child’s arms. This rip
in the canvas
is an evolution.
False Analogy
A ladder
back chair will
not push her
to hit a glass
ceiling with the tip
of her tongue. Without progressive
lenses, she can see
how life unfolds
in phases
of another
planet’s moon. Or two.
Architects toss out the best
words—another
year passes
successfully inside
a found poem.
Fifty Plus
A week across
the border—no
turning back and
all other clichés
come true
beneath a mistletoe
she doesn’t
stand beneath. Her kisses
are not
parasites. Her infatuation
gets nourished
from within.
Lip
He sees
structure in her
she might destroy again
without his voice’s midnight calm
to soothe.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 