She’ll tell you
she doesn’t need
room. Let it spill
over. And she won’t be
lying. Desire
fills a different vessel
now—it comes
with wings.
Poetry
Winter Reds
Problems
with skin and boots
and the lights flicker off—
on again like below zero
sunshine.
May I Have My Book Back?
No longer his
birthday, she can
relax for another
364 days. If only
it were a leap
year. She might use
that extra 24 hours
to practice forgetting
who he ever was.
Past Winter Solstice
Two days into shrinking
night, photos get touch
screen silently taken
in the clouds. Who visits
the creation museum? A myth
is born. A 25-year-old
portrait painting comes alive
in a child’s arms. This rip
in the canvas
is an evolution.
False Analogy
A ladder
back chair will
not push her
to hit a glass
ceiling with the tip
of her tongue. Without progressive
lenses, she can see
how life unfolds
in phases
of another
planet’s moon. Or two.
Architects toss out the best
words—another
year passes
successfully inside
a found poem.
Too Cold for a Parade
Diamond dust drifts
vertically through air. Sun
dogs will wag
their tails to defy
her resignation
to frown on these shrunken
days. Sixteen more
before they begin
to expand again. Who
needs a float?
Decoding
Even getting to Q
would be more
than she imagined. More than
she could taste
when she licks
stamps for those envelopes
filled with naïve
dreams. Some evaporate
for good without a trace. Others
come true
for a while before turning
into nightmares. And some
hold other positions
in the alphabet
she can’t make out yet.
Thank You
For this
chance to see gifts
everywhere I breathe.
Everything is poetry
today.
White Space
Time out
chairs in corners
of a widening room
beckon her to retrieve those lost
daydreams.
Slow Skim
Between the center two
in those chain
of lakes—a channel
becomes a fish
back with ice
floe scales fanning
and breathing
to an invisible
rhythm. Is it the wind
that whips across
unobstructed Calhoun
to get trapped
beneath the overpass?
Or, is it a boat
wake delayed
by suddenly plummeting
temperatures, eventually
rippling through? And
a quiet sloshing
against concrete embankments.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 