To panic about ice
yet to form, comments yet
to be made, technology
yet to break down,
a Coleridge poem printed
and not read
is to be most afraid
of how serendipity dances
across pavers—
cracked or not.
Poetry
Whatever It Takes
If I had a drawer
filled with aging apples
to sniff, I might not need
to repeat the word
rosewater
into the stagnant air.
Might comprehend narrative
in its raw state.
Sandy Hook Light
for my father
We step inside the octagon
pillar. And we ascend.
Each turn of the spiral
stair breaks another one of your words
from its memory foothold—
loom ing
bar ri er
in can des cent
sand bar
un der tow.
Syllables smash
against the white-washed
concrete floor base below
and dissolve without leaving
any echo
residue. 1764, the year
it was built, splits
open—decades spill
onto the treads we’ve just climbed.
By the time we reach
the lanthorn, the Fresnel lens
freshly cleaned and functioning
into the 21st century, the sky
has cleared for us
to see in all directions—Atlantic Ocean,
Jersey Coast, Verrazano Narrows
Bridge, the Empire State
Building 20 miles north.
In the heat trapped inside and panorama opening wide, whole sentences fly
off our tongues, circumnavigating
enunciation. Did they jump,
or were they pushed? I can retrieve them
later, if you wish. For now,
it’s just you and me, Dad,
on the beam
that can be seen 19 miles
at sea on a clear night.
For now, we are the fixed white light.
Wonders
Reading done with mirrors
is a backwards art
I fear
learning. When self-reflection
becomes an obsession, it’s time
to stop
paying the electric bill. Time
to flip
all letters hanging in suspension.
Vampire Poet
She is one—or
thinks she is. That blood
on her chin
is really ink she stole
from your pen. See how perfect
diamonds have been cut
out of the pages
to your book of musings. Don’t laugh—
she might get away with it.
Two Windows In
Dilated pupils as the sun sets,
I find my way
home by other means.
My parents met outside
an eye doctor’s office. I’m not looking
for it. Patterns can be broken
especially if
I don’t participate
in the first place. The last place
I would hide
in might be so cold.
Doused
A V of black
birds moves across
the sky, the bus
is late again. Her stomach
aches from testing
all those body mist
testers—one scent
is too much
for her. Any bird alone
must be lost
she thinks. When she wants
to hide, she goes
to sleep. Figments find her
face up ready
to receive an aroma
therapy of dreams.
Net
Head tilted forward,
she studies
his face, hopes
to learn how to bend
notes to put them
in a jar, poke holes
so they can breathe, warp,
turn into something
else. She’s afraid to dream
what that might be.
March Loops
She slips through
a gum-cracking crowd
just in time
to shield her eyes
from a parade of ponchos
and cowls getting closer. Wants
to remember to open them
in time to find the perfect
tiny spoon for her diorama
existence of shrinking
days—expanding nights.
Snow Globe Shaken
If I don’t break
it en route home,
this mason jar
could become the first
glass image
I transform without
getting sand
in my eyes.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 