A regatta underway in ditch water,
the wind changes direction
just in time. To survive the melt
without damage is no small act. Welcome
to the drip age. From it, drought isn’t a life
saver. Water—too much— not enough—can kill. When
this planet gets the DTs,
it’s all over but the quakes.
Three days later. Can’t sing anymore.
An uncle’s ashes scattered
from the Statue of Liberty. Nightmares
in daylight, cross out drunk—
write down sick. Expected rescue
does not come. Nothing
is wasted in this world—is a lie. A lump
of cold damp earth
in her hand. To the edge, she closes
her eyes, opens her hand. Thin
tinkle of a mandolin makes
a sad sound. Not from the common
cup—not Johnny.
Note: Contains phrases found or inspired by Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 