This day
encapsulates
my endless gratitude
for each moment I get to live
sober.
Poetry
26th & Lyndale Again
Dreams that open
vaults might release
phantom lovers
with guitars. Live
music gets played
in a bar
meant for only
one thing—living
to drink. And
she doesn’t
anymore—drink
that is. Rumor
of a nickname
for her
she doesn’t
recognize. VIP
status gets a seat
on a fireplace
hearth. Who
can remember
how their bodies
came to collide
in five
easy moves.
Was it
like this? Probably
not, but a fire
burning on a cold
November night
could dissolve
the need to know.
Runner’s High Cinquain
And so
as predicted
she becomes addicted
to all the drugs her body can
produce.
Window Phasing
People watching
becomes an accidental
fixation with her own
reflection after dark.
Riding Through
Row and rows
of Indiana
corn was my first
real poem. According
to someone
who should know. Did she
really know
what I meant?
Did I? I did—
the ruts from banana
seat bicycle
tires remain.
Day 4,004 Odyssey
Her journey
beyond his
predicting the world
will end breaks
down moments
before she sees
a pigeon die
in the street. Before
Americana loses
its eighth
meaning. But not before
she gets to dance
away his blues
on a boulevard. Cut
down the middle,
she would never murder
rabbits in anyone’s
garden. And he can
respect that—even if
he owns a gun.
Aftermath
Whoever murders
jack-o-lanterns
who are you
supposed to be? Is that mask
removable or
were you born
mean? Nothing
scarier than
a question
save a clown.
Amy Nash will be participating in a poetry reading Saturday, November 9th, at SubText Bookstore in Saint Paul
PUBLICATION READING
SubText Bookstore, 165 Western Avenue No., St. Paul, MN
7 PM., Saturday, November 9th, 2013
FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC
Poetry, essays about Home
Featured readers include Jill Breckenridge, Tami Mohamed Brown, Wendy Brown-Baez, James Cihlar, Alice Owen Duggan, Margaret Hasse, Molly Sutton Kiefer, Linda Kantner, Julie Landsman, Amy Nash, Ellen Shriner, Cary Waterman, Karen Herseth Wee, Miriam Weinstein
Flatter
She remembers
birthdays upon
birthdays but not
what day it is. Faces
upon faces
but not
names. Mile splits
into splits into
splits but not
the distance
between heart
beats—just let it
not be
a straight line.
What Day Is It Cinquain
No more
invasive myths
about what can be seen
beneath the meniscus without
a mask.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 