I borrowed a list of resentments
from a stranger
on a train. I’m not even pissed
at you for dying. Maybe later.
I was once—angry—when
you accused me
of starving
myself. But even that rocking
is an empty dinghy
beneath the old drawbridge—
no sail, no wind.
A clogged bathroom sink
drain propels her
into a Monday morning
thunderstorm. Most organs can’t be
recycled. Is command
really an alternative
to control? A name attached
to a body is still
just a name. Who she is
when the afternoon sun evaporates
pavement puddles
is another truth.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 