A perfectly ripe Jersey
tomato color seeps
from a pen. A knit
cap worn in the middle
of May and a pair
of capris too. No
socks—ripe
or not. No word
on when the next
weather pattern
will arrive.
Poetry
Depot Upper Deck
A spider
plant clings
to her
hair then lets
go. Up wooden
stairs to a higher
viewing ground. Buds
to become
leaves. Then
go off
while she waits
for the right
words to compress
into a pot
for later
use. Wanders
across borders
with dirt
sculpted into
velvet vignettes
with small tails.
Minnesota Spring Breaks
This is
finally it—
tiny green buds begin
to break along most tree branches.
So poised.
May Day
Fuel leaks out
all over the tarmac
beneath the left wing.
Sandbags. Fire trucks.
Another night
in Austin. Back home
it’s still snowing.
Mexican Free-Tailed
I must revise
my opinion of you. Beautiful—
not terrifying. Tiny and fast and
docile and determined. The calmness
of the Colorado River and Lady Bird
Lake settles as the sun sets.
And we in the boat wait
for you
with your long fingers
and clinging wings to wake. Much chirping
and preparing in the roost before you
emerge from under the Congress
Avenue Bridge to swarm
above the tree line—a 25-mile trek
each way for your nightly
feeding. I must revise.
Eight Months
While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
Flash Memoir
“Anonymity is priceless.”
—Jay Farrar, Falling Cars and Junkyard Dogs
At the half
century mark, debris stops
falling long
enough for her
to see stars. Suddenly
she believes
in the power of the speed
of light to guide her
to a place
that needs
no name. Familiar
faces remain
intact. And another
song becomes
a homecoming
she didn’t realize
she was
craving in her sleep.
Fake Book
Rumors of notes
divided up—a settlement
made behind closed trap
doors. Illegal bindings
can lead to the tightest bonds
and rhythm section. Whatever
you call it—maybe true
love—spills forth
where the mapping leaves off.
Restless Night Reader
Your book turns
me on too much I can’t
sleep I can’t stop
for punctuation I’m a girl
cliché it’s your words
not those naughty
photos or sketches.
Lullaby to Icarus
The too bright
morning sun
has yet to burn
off any of this late
April snow. What good
is an international
film festival pass
if she refuses
to see? Drama
of the interior elates
her more than a car
chase her father would have laughed
over. The last notes
to the bridge
smell the best.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 