To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
fate
If She Reads Too Much
Into this
collision of events—
an anniversary and
an announcement.
An epitaph nodding
at a long dead
affair gets plastered
with a bill blasting
a live
threat. A reunion
of the soundtrack
that did her in. She could peel
it off—the stone would still
be cool. But these words
are not.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 