She believes in triangles—
would rather not
triangulate. Hates crowds,
loves New York. Sees
no contradiction. The third
sister balances
textures with the sound
of a quarter moon
hitting the February sky
over Loring Park. What lies between
Minnesota and New England
are all the stories
she has left
to tell.
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.
To run a marathon, write
a book, publish
a poem, make
love to a woman, join
a commune, find
a home, see the world,
to call it a day
is to spin my own
epitaph on a 3 x 5
note card, index
my breath, become obsessed
with chasing my own
past, is to take
a long ride on a train.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 