Amy Nash will be participating in a poetry reading Saturday, November 9th, at SubText Bookstore in Saint Paul

home-anthology-new

PUBLICATION READING
SubText Bookstore, 165 Western Avenue No., St. Paul, MN
7 PM., Saturday, November 9th, 2013
FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC
Poetry, essays about Home
Featured readers include Jill Breckenridge, Tami Mohamed Brown, Wendy Brown-Baez, James Cihlar, Alice Owen Duggan, Margaret Hasse, Molly Sutton Kiefer, Linda Kantner, Julie Landsman, Amy Nash, Ellen Shriner, Cary Waterman, Karen Herseth Wee, Miriam Weinstein

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Day 212 (When I Am Home)

I am New England dirt,
the taste of beets out back.
I am not brownstone—
not urban by birth. I am

still in quarry depth,
the scent of cars rusting beneath.
I am not ocher—not red
iron ore impure. I am sipping

fresh water from a claw-foot tub
turned spring, overflowing
to Bone Lake at dusk
and warm. But I am not

the moon to be collected.
I am not forty jokes memorized—
not working a room,
timing accent and plot. I am

ready to mark this laughter
the colors of a flower bed
against brick. I am the line
drawn purple—blues and reds

of a road map
preparing to fold everything
I am
(except magnetic north) in place.

Hermit Crab

Whoever can write
about home on demand
has never been challenged
by the prospect of losing
its meaning. The place where I was born

holds no promise
of belonging. Have seen it
once since I left at six
months. Where I met my husband
means nothing because

there is no husband. If home is
where you hang
yourself, I can almost call this town
on the Mississippi the place. Almost. But
what about The City? The Atlantic Ocean?

It could be where you build
your own Take No Heroes Hotel
from some abandoned structure
with former lives peaking through.

Take No Heroes Hotel

Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs

the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story

lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies

of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below

erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.

Two Windows In

Dilated pupils as the sun sets,
I find my way
home by other means.

My parents met outside
an eye doctor’s office. I’m not looking
for it. Patterns can be broken

especially if
I don’t participate
in the first place. The last place

I would hide
in might be so cold.