Home is in the pronunciation.
In this silence,
I belong nowhere—everywhere
could be my first word.
Poetry
Viscose
Footbridges are her chalkboard.
She erases the night
with her tongue. No spitting
allowed. If she could write
like you used to
speak, she’d drop
all R’s
(reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic)
to make room for one long
queue that snakes
along those unmarred banks.
But she just can’t do it.
Any Day Now
Old fillings fall out—old
infatuations rise
up—old habits move
on—old stories settle
in—I’m not so old I can’t tuck
myself into the next
roll over.
This Inventory Is a Lie
I borrowed a list of resentments
from a stranger
on a train. I’m not even pissed
at you for dying. Maybe later.
I was once—angry—when
you accused me
of starving
myself. But even that rocking
is an empty dinghy
beneath the old drawbridge—
no sail, no wind.
The Eve
She wears
no mask to honor
those dead—in her own
voice. A preoccupation
with cemeteries may end
tomorrow. Or her identity
will be revealed
by other naked means.
I Am Chronic
Each poem, drunk, diary
entry. Each smoke, vitamin,
obsession. Each song
lyric, verbal tick, chapter
read. Each piece
of chocolate, mile
walked, resentment nursed.
I am each reprieve.
Glass Plan
To run a marathon, write
a book, publish
a poem, make
love to a woman, join
a commune, find
a home, see the world,
to call it a day
is to spin my own
epitaph on a 3 x 5
note card, index
my breath, become obsessed
with chasing my own
past, is to take
a long ride on a train.
Token Rolls
With that simple placement
of a single red
rose in your tended
gravesite flowerbed
I say good-bye. Still I see
your face, hear your voice
in strangers conversing
as they do their jobs
in your hometown. Whoever reads
the message I attached to the thorn
will know the code
to break your inappropriate hold
on my life. Some symbols
need to die.
Found Tags
Fear ghosts,
god, graffiti, guardian
angels, and
home.
On the Slope
She tucks a note
into the flower bed beside
his tombstone to start
an anonymous conversation
with all the other cemetery
saviors who may hit this graveyard
before leaves camouflage
the beginning and end
dates engraved in stone
and mute everything in between.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 