Will I
get the secret
code in time to enter
that Boston speakeasy after
hours?
Poetry
Hand Washing
A tiny soap bubble
forms, floats
through still air, drifts
to its ultimate
destination, demise
on porcelain
surface. More fragile
than her own ideas,
she turns away. Can’t bear
another scene
of destruction. Yet
the beauty of its gossamer
film stays with her
the rest of the day—bringing her more
strength than a thousand
poorly chosen words.
Interception
Your secret
is safe
with me. You
are not
safe with more
secrets.
Six Months
Another one
passes. Halfway around
without him. The heat
of late summer
was closing in
that morning. Now late winter
hints at thaw
before another day
closes just a little bit
later than the one
before. Still not used to it.
Startled and chilled
by moments of awareness
of nonexistence. Or,
is that it? He exists
in the route I take
each morning to work,
in the choices
I make when I am truly
awake, in the words
I retrieve—sometimes with excruciating
slowness. In the messages
I hear in that February
wind. He’s there
in the backdrop
to an overripe
moon. There propelling
me to imagine the next
full one. Then again—
an infinitesimal speck,
how can I know? And that’s it—
the spiritual collision
he would have me lean into.
Who Me
Who said woodpecker? How
will its shock-absorbency
system inspire me
to become my own
resource? An observation
made without an “I”
could be the most beautiful
hard-headedness of all.
Sixties Formation
“Rocket Man” is another one. “Sugar,
Sugar” “Hey Jude.” “Can’t
Get No Satisfaction”
“Georgy Girl.” More
than a personal history
lesson. More than nostalgia. This is
the indescribable
sound print
that tracks the birth
of my soul.
24/7 Hiss
All the mail
carriers lounging in the corner
café reek
of smoke. Meanwhile there’s not one piece
of even junk
mail in my box. The transference
of my father’s
photo from a filled blank book to a fresh
empty one
is complete. I know the wind
chill is brutal, but
what happened to that unofficial motto?
Neither snow nor rain
nor heat nor gloom
of night stays these couriers
from the swift
completion of their appointed rounds.
Yet now
I can hear the radiators whisper incessantly—beware
what you wish for.
Note: The unofficial motto is an inscription on the New York General Post Office located on 8th Avenue and 33rd Street.
Belated Love Poem
This is not
about dissecting bee
hives, celebrating dead
presidents (stacked or face
down), the last time
I saw grass grow
anywhere. This is
about the first time
we spoke and you made
a joke and the train jerked
to a full stop. It was the end
of the line,
and you and I
had just begun.
Homonymy
A stranger asks
if this is all
I want to do
with my life—be
a synonym
or antonym. I know the art
of silence, how to resist
a reply, how to avert
the eyes. I know how
to make anyone
walk away. Know
the loneliness
of a skyway
on a Sunday
afternoon. Exhaust
hues get bundled
into a string
of knotted pearls
a woman might wear
one evening
too easily ruined
by a broken
traffic light
in just fallen snow.
Attending Malvern Elementary
The girl who walks
alone to school, to the library,
home pogo-sticks
in her street
on snow
days before
Easter. A newborn
and marriage unraveling
inside, no one notices
her absence. Still
hasn’t begun
to swear or stop
believing.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 