If I were a museum,
I would adopt
the ampersand
before at. Swirls
of entanglement mean
more to me
than a spiraling into
sense of place.
If I can’t have home,
I’ll take the plural
loci, the many phases
of identity, the journeys
over arrival, options
over commitment—
the possibility
of leaning into infinity.
Aphasia is anonymous
in its demand
that poems be
written
without words.
I’m not ready to give
mine up. The wave
of an ampersand
ropes them in
just in time.
A dime in the street
becomes two touching
a flatness tires can’t roll
away. Infinity sleeps outside
before summer solstice
in the rain. With morning, it rises
to become a figure eight
on air—hold the ice.
Keep going, dare
ascendance and serifs. By midday,
it just might become
this ampersand above
tree canopies flirting
with young gulls and moths.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 