On her way to join
a cult, she unearths
her identity on the edge
of the woods
where she used to get lost.
introvert
Curse of the Cult of Personality
A door-to-door
salesman who sells doors,
he can’t hang on
a gate without
walls or a fence
to give it purpose. He swings
on bars
parallel to nothing
anyone can see. But he does,
and it’s hinged
in brass. And
he won’t stop there.
White Space
A dream with its middle erased, a phantom
limb—it unnerves her come that moment morning
coffee kicks in. Rain
that doesn’t happen
gets stored in those places no one mentions
in status reports. She’s about
to speak—her own laughter burns
her cheeks. Out of practice, she clears her throat
in a hurry. Still, lyric over
narrative breaks free.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 