A super moon rises a day after
trees came down and a quarter of the city
was left powerless. Before
you were gone
from not just your body
but your mind, you would have counted
on that extra full
lunar event to anchor us
a little more securely
to life. Before and after.
After 28 years, this day still knocks
the wind out of me.
More than a quarter
century. Just shy
of three decades. I look for you
in each fresh start.
Would you still accept
me after all the near misses and messes
I’ve gotten into? The slowly revolving
mop ups? Would you still
believe in being
a work in progress? Would you
give me another chance? I can hear
your voice as clearly as when
you were alive: Yes.
While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
No ode—pastoral
or urban
myth—will do. No
flag raising
in any pattern or
color. No parades—though
he loved them.
It’s an odd.
A prime.
The current count:
7 days to make a week.
7 notes on a musical scale.
7 attributes of physicality.
7 words to Step 7 begins humbly.
7 home states plus one.
7 children and grandchildren.
7 months to make a preemie.
Some say seven is
this world.
What comes next? I might ask him.
To listen for an answer
in night-falling murmurs
of an otherworldly pulse becomes
the point—not the answer itself.
Fear is the only four letter word
I need to say
to be free. Another season begins
to break
without him. A patch of sidewalk
ice melts
into a small lake, freezes again
overnight. Spring
can’t get any traction. Somewhere
an empty suitcase, an empty raincoat,
an empty tomb. Don’t forget (a parent
or sister might say)
to snap
a mental picture
of those ocean waves breaking
open another calm
after a late winter storm.
I can almost taste
the snow—nothing
good ever comes
from that. A late March double
espresso might neutralize
the palate. Might
not. A family
reunion in August resuscitated
to honor my father. I
never went when he was
alive. How can I
go now? August is
the month of grand
gestures, spiritual releases.
August is
the month he left
us. Yes, I told him
he could let go, but
how could I know
what it would be like
to live in a world without
his heart beating
in it? August is the month
when water
falling majesty just
might return.
All the world’s
an ice rink
this morning before
the sun (no one can see
through freezing rain
and fear) fully rises. Where
did it go
when these bones began
to break and drop
to the lacquered
ground? Whose bones
will replace those
missing from this new silence?
All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
café reek
of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference
of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
empty one
is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?
Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.
Yet now
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.
Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.
Everything echoes
interruption from 5 ½ months
ago. Another trip
to an art museum
suspended. Piles
of new poems stacked
against a stucco
wall unblogged. All walks
come with a hollowed-out
hive halfway
through. If it’s a before
after scenario, this is
the in-progress video
that won’t end.
The back alley becomes
a graveyard
for worn couches.
Nine degrees
doesn’t feel too bad
if I stay away
from bridges and river
banks. Icicles formed
unnaturally still remain
on bare tree branches
in the yard
where firefighters fought
and lost
a year-end battle. A raging one,
it took down
a 100-year-old multiplex
home with pillars.
How can I leave you behind
in a year so scorched?
Give me a sign
that your spirit has made it
through wind chill to now.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 