And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
mystery
Eleven Cubed
Whoever erased
all thoughts of him
from my head while I
slept last night
will become the new
mystery I expand
into an obsession
before snow falls
on another civil
twilight. Could be spitting
out toothpicks
for all I care.
The Best Thing To Do
To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath
is a risk
to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief
and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.
Written on the Skin
Total exposure before a second
full moon passes over
the sky to our right is my wrong
impulse—the one I don’t have
the courage to plunge into darkness.
I still can’t explain why
a morning ghost
moon makes me want
to believe in mystery’s propulsion
over city lights.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 