To be lost inside the eye
of a virus, to shiver
from the sensation
that this condition is
permanent, to forget
what was so crucial
to say to you last night
is to be a human dropping
to her knees
to cushion the crash.
Poetry
Who Has Drawn a Bead On
this day? It will not wake up
more than a dull white
of clouds and snow—an ash
missing a few waves. Must make
do with light tricks
weeks before winter. Find a way
to harness the energy
it will take to break
open the hours
to unclutter fear
from the walk.
When I Come To
after the drug
of eating dirt has splayed me
unconscious, I will resume
my search to unearth
my own history. And rub
stiffness from my hands—
the grip’s the worst. The alcoholic
tradition is not the only one
to be found. Will dig more.
Left
Not everything that doesn’t get built
dies, not everything built lives.
Better with a wrench
than a hammer, she
would rather loosen
those four legs to collapse
old surfaces than tighten a grip
into an ache. This overreach
for words pounds down.
We Have Sidewalks in the Sky
I won’t be the one
who left her purple
gloves on the counter, who cut off
the blind man in limbo
between buildings. Will be
the one looking
for a way around
Holidazzle Parade crowds. I will
return to street level
next time I see
my way home before dark.
Who Is This Voice
—sounds female—who
commands my attention
the way the dead
vines outside my window attract
hearty northern birds
and squirrels to the rummage,
demand that my indoor cat take
his instinctive position as hunter?
A stillness so loud
it wakes the early winter
in me to watch. Who?
Cincinnati
Bent spoons on display, the Ohio
down the hill. What is this
warmer place
that is a stranger to me,
that harbors the soul
of someone so familiar—
now gone? This is
where I am now.
Colors of Imperfection
How to wash a wall
clean escapes me. The stained
yellow frame
of life happened
has marked where the black
and white Flat Iron
Building photo hung
in elongation. Always a phallic
comment, but that’s not it. And
now I want to hang you—
your black, white, and gray
evocation of guitar and train—
your one fast move or I’m gone
tour memorabilia on that spot. But
you won’t fit. A black line
from the edge
of a chest of drawers,
a tiny crack
in the new frame
I’ve bought to hold you in.
A collection of flaws—not a god in sight.
It’s a Joke
So a woman walks into a bar
with an empty stage
near the back door. She sees a saint
who looks like Willie Nelson
knocking back a shot, decides to ask him
to grant her a wish. “Please, please, please
oh messenger of God, please
let me win the lottery.” No
response. He orders another. She leaves.
Comes back the next night. Same saint, same
question—same silence.
The next night—all the same. Finally,
on the evening of a full moon, she enters
the bar to find the saint sitting on a stool
on the stage with a beat-up, old Gibson
Advanced Jumbo. She begins again, “Please,
please, oh messenger. . .” He interrupts her—“You know,
when I think of saints, I think of
Jay Farrar. Oh, and baby, would you be willing
to buy a ticket this time?”
En Route
She writes about cities—Cincinnati, Red
Wing, Newport, Kent, Fort
Worth—before she sees them
to prepare her soul
for any embedded poetry
that might work itself loose
beneath her feet. Each place is a place
called home
for someone. No one
can knock her off
her footing without her consent.
She just can’t wait
for planes to land, trains
to pull into stations.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 