And what to do
with those nails—I won’t bite
anything that close
to the foundation. Wouldn’t want
that from you. Or
to name you precious
sculpture. We both could stand
to move to the sound
of our own banging hearts.
bite
Aphasic (Day 2,773)
Numb’s the word.
Just past summer
solstice, no rain, muck
blows off
as a dusty burst
of thoughts you may have—but
they will remain trapped
in a cephalic void. The conversation
is over.
I’m not ready.
My jaw aches
from clenching
teeth against the cruelty
of your disease. Look out,
I can’t predict when
or where I’ll bite.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 