And time to put away
the dresses, seal
windows shut, remember
my stupid hat and gloves
and the fastest route
through the largest skyway
network to a view
of the river
where grief can flow.
Poetry
New Normal
The morning after
it all, I wonder
when, where, how
it will emerge.
When will
the aftershocks
of his death cease?
Where did
the bagpiper go,
where should
those empty shells
from the gun salute go?
How will
I know
this is
the new normal?
Broken Drought
As quickly as
the rain stops, my heart
aches anew
for the sound
of your voice—
the reassurance
that I truly am
as I truly should
be this moment.
Howdhecatchem
You say let’s celebrate
Columbo—not
Columbus—Day. I’ll dirty
my trench coat
for you. I could be a detective
the way I’ve perfected the stalk
without disturbing
anyone, especially the dead. I yell
at those people
who climb on the red metal
sculpture in a public garden.
It’s not a slide. I’m no grave
digger. Archaeologist—never. Who
gets to say what’s sacred or how
to achieve closure? It’s time to give
those bones a rest.
Minnesota Deuce
Twenty years into this
relocation west
of the Mississippi, I will
become the original
version of Another
Girl, Another Planet.
Just for today, no
cover. And maybe tonight.
And perhaps the next
full moon lighting
up the river’s only
natural falls.
Go Back to Rockville
As soon as
we bring
your ashes east
to rest
where you began
as soon as
we hear
the bagpipes grieve
wailing beauty
against stone
as soon as
perfectly selected
hymns are sung,
prayers murmured,
eulogy declared, another
poem read
as soon as
we reach
the engraved
memory of your parents
and second sister—
the baby before you
as soon as
your ashes
are properly returned
to earth’s secure
containment
as soon as
you are
released, I will
begin again.
Or Save It for Later
It’s the 21st century—these poems must
dance, conduct
a four-string quartet, transmit tiny
3D images of a pixelated
soul. They must move
the way they’ve always had to.
Last Blue Moon
She divides her days into
before and after
he died.
Into with and without. Into
physical and spiritual.
She believes
in god in phases
of the moon’s breaking
open to become sliced
beams of light. A blue one
puts him to rest.
Ten Days In
An invisible hand
rips pages
in the dark. There are
hungry ghost
editors looking to be
fed. Perforated thought
slips through
translucent clutches—
a porous wisdom
visible from the river’s west bank.
27 August 2012
For My Father
The Mississippi flows
a calm at my feet
to send the message
in ripple effect:
I must trust
that your spirit will continue
to guide and nudge me
(despite inevitable snags) the way
you always did
when you were alive.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 