If I disown the color green,
how will I remember how to climb
a tree? If it’s blue
I say is no longer mine, I might go
blind. Black and white
cannot rescue us now.
Poetry
Islands of Virgin Woods
A stack of canoes banked
on a rack beside the canal
between two lakes is a chain
gang of my former lovers. Release
the bungee cord fasteners, free
one from the group to use. Glide
through flat water
on a sunny afternoon till it turns
into black sky and heavy rain. Plunge
the paddles, pick up the pace.
If I don’t return
this one, I won’t get another
one to damage—or
be damaged by.
Real Subway
Everything changes
when tracks get laid
down to boulevard
the street. No heavy
rail in these towns. How many
American cities go underground
to move? Above, on, or
below—I will ride
out the need
to be destined.
Severe
Light becomes passive
aggressive with an upturned
umbrella ceiling. Reflected
off nothing more, nothing
less, I might scream, or
quietly hum
in the rain.
June 12th
Yesterday was another
one. Twenty-one
years—but why keep
a tally? Yesterday
I heard his signature
song come tumbling out
of that Irish pub
on the mall. Part of that romance
on public transportation
series. The only kind I could know
other than this pedestrian love.
Really that’s all there is
for me not quite
half a lifetime later—so many
of the original players long gone.
Nature’s Bethel
That she could define the sacred place inside her architecture of breathing,
that she could steal her father’s Old Head cave—naturally programmed
with thick Irish grass to cushion vistas of the Irish Sea—
that she could claim even one piece of rock as her own
to build a chapel for her own non-conformity,
would be her attention to structure,
would be her proposal to the world,
would be her physical presence
inside a hallowed ground where there are
no lines, no dimensions, only
the exquisite knowing of a spot
where she, like seamen before her,
would go. She would go
to rest her body, to forget it, to uncover
in the rubble of Earth’s design,
souls lost, souls renewed,
a storm pushing so many
waves into the cave, etching
its remarkably evolved design
no human hand could replicate.
Don’t Touch the Stagecoach
If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.
Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out
tale to find
the way out.
Nothing Operatic
With effort,
she would only whisper
the story of his life
to those trees
that would listen.
Carry On
Free fall—
a belly flop
onto carpet. No wheels
can rescue the traveler now
landing.
On Clemens Road Again
Who offers
an app for saying
good-bye without
uttering a sound? Secrets
are sometimes so loud
she doesn’t pay
attention. Misses
the easy
ones. She understands
the hardened silence too well.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 