The last of the public
pay phones, a dial tone to nowhere
backwards in a dog
park is a hunt
for diamonds, is easier
for some to fathom. Me,
I don’t know how
to wear them, am seeking
other gems.
Poetry
Connecting Flight
Free to walk in the rain
in a park—to imagine a dial
tone from the sole remaining
pay phone on the southeast corner
where the sun might have crept in
another afternoon. It might dry up
in time for true blues
on a plaza, for a baseball game
to play out in a new stadium
where birds get in free.
Because the Roosevelt Island Tramway Was Closed
This bleeding is a reminder—
not all watermarks spring
from water, not all spills
are toxic, not all rain washes
away grit, not all words
make it to the next day. She’ll do her best
to read another message
that might hang in suspension
without slipping
out of place. She could become
in place if she refused
to grimace over outpourings.
On Approach
It is by abandonment
I come to this place
of landing, this state
of delivered from evil
or angels mind. Through clouds,
descent,
the wing behind me, The City
below,
a capitalization
I won’t deny. The loss
of symmetry is
only part of the story.
Whose Serendipity
Months go by, plans
straightened and stacked
against a retaining
wall. One strong June blast
of warm air, and she’s off
her stoop, she’s scrambling
to recollect. The reshuffle
comes out as red as
an improvised sunset
backing off a river.
Scar Control (Day 2,753: Take 2)
A cool-down precedes another
runaway from the resurfacing
of every tiny ache and sting
she’s known—by choice
or not. Good
sleeping weather, she hopes
to leave unwelcome
reverberation on her pillow,
hopes to be able to say
what she means to the aerial view
she’ll wave away
as the plane takes her
to a reunion with other scraps
she left behind
by choice. It’s a risk—that word
and its closest relations.
Geophagy
Watching the time drag
itself through the driest
dirt, she wants to kneel
into it and scoop
handfuls into her gaping
mouth, wants to swallow expectations
whole. Then spit them out.
She knows she can’t
have it both ways.
Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge
Would she know
balance if
it knocked her off
this pedestrian bridge
she stands on? Closed
for repairs starting tomorrow,
it could be
another unreliable witness.
Written on the Skin
Total exposure before a second
full moon passes over
the sky to our right is my wrong
impulse—the one I don’t have
the courage to plunge into darkness.
I still can’t explain why
a morning ghost
moon makes me want
to believe in mystery’s propulsion
over city lights.
Trying to Get Lost in Kenwood
At the corner of Thomas
and Upton—a crossing that wasn’t
supposed to happen—she walks under the right canopy
of trees. A layer of fear shed, it leaves
no mark on the sidewalk.
Some spills are meant to remain
invisible to everything but the slightest breeze.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 