Today slate,
tomorrow lapis
lazuli, tonight
a batting between.
She’ll never see
the world through the eyes
of stars. A blue moon
would be her waltz
to summer night
swoons. And that’s new
wave enough.
Poetry
With Sloping Shelves
Multicolored book
trucks still roll
into view. She muzzles
herself as she drifts
to a one-room
library circa 1970. Rain dazzles
the surface
of the island. The scent
of Mylar, settled-in
type, a lilac
perfume on the librarian
who reads
Blueberries for Sal
to a circle
of restless children. Next stop,
next town, the Flying Horses
to ring themselves off.
Then it fades away.
10 Months
Another 27th day hits
the way heat slaps
my face when I leave
an air-conditioned
shell. He would have walked
in it—no matter
what. I mention an MIT cap
and ring to a young architect
who knows
the Institute well. He says
as much as it changes
it remains the same. My father
faced change,
loved the same.
Low Couture
She is a closet
dress maker. A model
for the people. A person—
she’s the one.
300 Days
A super moon rises a day after
trees came down and a quarter of the city
was left powerless. Before
you were gone
from not just your body
but your mind, you would have counted
on that extra full
lunar event to anchor us
a little more securely
to life. Before and after.
If She Reads Too Much
Into this
collision of events—
an anniversary and
an announcement.
An epitaph nodding
at a long dead
affair gets plastered
with a bill blasting
a live
threat. A reunion
of the soundtrack
that did her in. She could peel
it off—the stone would still
be cool. But these words
are not.
June 12: 22 Years Later
It comes around once
a year like any other
with a morning,
noon, afternoon, civil
twilight reminder. The Cuyahoga
River at dusk. A boat docked
in the Flats. An outdoor stage. The opening
act. Guitars. Dance in black
leggings and a royal blue
floral button down baby
doll dress with pockets.
Is it mine? The first
kiss, beer on tap, another kiss,
more beer on tap. Stouffer Inn, magic elevator
carpet. Room service pizza.
Clothes off. Jokes on
all night. Nothing dies
within your reach
again. A child who would be
21 by now is not mine
or yours—is the night’s own.
From Seed to Glass
Prairie vodka—a beverage
I will never taste. Made in Minnesota.
Property tax—a phrase
I’ll never utter
in Minnesota
or anywhere else. Show tune—
a collection of verses
I will never
memorize. I see rhinoceros—
a warping I will never stop
laughing over.
Organic drunk—
an oxymoron I still remember
how to translate.
Fallout Shelter Signature
She could write
a song
about writing
a postcard.
It’s been done
before—some from hell.
Some cause the blues
(sender or receiver). Some
are messages no one
is ready
to hear yet. Others
never read. And one
might say it all
along the edge.
Track 8
“The Mississippi River, magnetic engines roar,
sad songs keep the devil away.”
—Jay Farrar (Son Volt, “Angel of the Blues”)
These songs
are homecomings.
One—“Angel of the Blues”—
returns me to the roots of true
saudade.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 