Say something
out of bounds. Whisper
prose. Forget
how many lines
are leftover. Make some
more in the cold
night air. February
isn’t as cruel
as April, is it, Mr. Eliot?
Poetry
Northern
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.
Wadsworth Falls, CT
Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water
fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath
one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.
Toughened or Tempered
A mural on a sound
barrier wall won’t disturb
the peace. A movie
flashing on an ice rink dasher
board will not melt. But
air measuring
14 below zero Fahrenheit
with 35 below wind chill will
make your eyes sting. And who will shed
Dutch tears?
Odds Are
A city club awning becomes
the abominable snowman’s mouth
full of icicle dagger teeth. I don’t want to
wake the beast. I walk uncovered,
keep a safe distance
from the fringe. Let snow fall
on my head instead. I don’t believe in
monsters but know my beliefs
have nothing to do with it—winter
risks, or getting struck by lightning come spring.
Weather Extreme Cinquain
Will not
talk about it–
no circumpolar whirl
wind shear doldrums super storm fog–
just air.
Prosaic Dream
You are not in
her dream—merely fragments left
behind to prove
you were here. A small sketchbook,
a pair of socks, one
thick glove, a trace
of your carefully constructed
thought. She handles
the sketchbook but
finds an old-fashioned band
flyer with a letter scrawled
on the back
more appealing. Scans
the words—sees her name
near the bottom of the page. Slanted
forward. You know what
they say about that. And then
she wakes up. No idea
what the letter said
about her or who
it was addressed to. It’s 20 below,
and the cat’s licking bedroom
window blinds again.
Despite What You Believe In
Just because she takes
pictures of snow-packed trails
with her iPhone doesn’t mean
she’s a photographer. Writing
a text to his lover
doesn’t make him
a writer. Just because
she flies
first class overseas
doesn’t mean
she’s a pilot (or
waitress in the sky). Singing
“You Sexy Thing”
in the shower doesn’t make you
a singer or rock
star I might fall in
love with. Just because
I checked out
of the Take No Heroes Hotel
doesn’t mean
it will happen again.
Almost Thaw
She waves to the engineer
as an abbreviated freight train passes by—
heading southwest. She’s running
northeast now on snow
and slush. Could be quicksand
in spots, could be something
to complain about. But
she’s already said “hi”
to a XC skier and a couple
of women with dogs. Already made it this far
nearing the north end
of Lake of the Isles
without getting frostbitten
or falling down. May as well lean
in and call it
January bliss.
Smokefree Cinquain
Three years
and keep counting
up then down to return
to a time I still feared lighting
a match.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 