Meanwhile there’s this dream
I have of you—
a card game, a maze
of corridors, fingers hidden
behind torsos, a borrowed
kiss, another kind
of numbers played here—
and the song? I wake too soon.
kiss
Yearbook: A Found Poem
“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best
between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her
even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick
in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg
drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long
for the artless construction
of your face.
Who Finishes the Sentence
Will drink the new wine. The only conversation
I’ll have this weekend
is with you. If
erythrophobia was fatal, you would have been
a serial killer. Or was it just me?
Not yet vintage, I wanted to be
your only victim. A true enough
kiss to taste the tobacco
before it became my own. I long
to be the person again
who comes along
to stir yours. Though I can’t lick
your ghostly replies, the scent is rich
in pre-fall burning. Hold the leaves.
Doesn’t Check for Rings
One stop
sign, two
spritzes of rosewater, three
sips of iced mint
tea, four
acoustic guitar tunes, five
kisses on the lips—we
almost got away with a sixth.
What Flavor Preoccupation
Always a bit of gravel
or tar stuck to the bottom
of my shoe. Seldom
anyone watching
when I knock it off.
Haven’t studied a piece
of sculpture in over a month.
Longer for a painting
on a wall or dance performance
on some specific site.
I’m using
pretzel formation
to collect images
to keep from losing
my mind—you are gone.
How long do I wallow
in your death?
It was so long ago,
your kisses tasted
like smoke, not mine.
Pons
Another cruel reminder, cut
across the cheek upon waking—she is powerless
over her dreams. All those words
he lost will not be retrieved
the way her unconscious mind plots
it. The medication she lost
is not hers to lose. If she could
control them, no kisses planted
with perfect choreography
could open any trap doors
to escape from the message:
not to be false.
Repainting the Mouth
She is certain her mouth,
painted cerise,
will not wear away
too soon. She may
become all lips
without limbs, without
a neck, without a torso.
She would still dip
this color, with certainty,
to her brush.
Long before
day one
there was
this painted mouth:
Lipstick in hand,
she drew her mouth
perfectly without looking.
Later, watching herself
be an artist,
her lips canvas,
she drew a cinnabar moth,
not a kiss.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 