A commotion of geese flaps across
this paved way to go in circles
through my front yard I share
with anyone willing to show up. My struggle
to take off is my refusal
to drop the weight of every moment
but this one. This one
could be my soar. Could.
Poetry
Rhymes with Guile
To be remembered for this. She’ll accept the evaporation
of all other details in buckling concrete.
Tree roots need somewhere to go. The downturn
confused with a bow arched toward rooftop wild
flowers—it’s taken
a lifetime to learn to let these curves
cradle what they may.
From the Ground Up (Day 2,744)
Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
Suspension Feeding
When she disappears
into the atmosphere, will you
remember the shape her mouth was in
when she last said
your name, when she stepped back
from that kiss? A poet skirts
in and around surfaces
seeking a place to attach herself to.
It’s a barnacle
life—she’s always preferred the underside
of piers.
Another Pronunciation
Saudade isn’t saudade
if it is satisfied. When she least expects it,
other dreams come
into focus under the lights. Dust
of desire becomes frenzied
particles she won’t try to collect. She’s reaching
over the fence with its crumbling limestone
foundation to touch another’s—
carefully stacked against the wrought-iron grille.
She won’t see
the Atlantic tomorrow,
but she’ll get very close.
Obvious
Inspiration in the spit
laden air, in the sequence
of events from lake to balcony
to converted house to nailing down
these recalcitrant emotions
with a red hammer
(yes, it must be red).
I’m no butterfly
catcher, am afraid
to pin down wings
gently with my thumb.
I still need to let them fly
off to endanger you
to my vulnerable side.
And They Called It Ash
A writer loves
trees. This is the irony—how
we all come to love
our victims in the end.
Not Always Nouns
Her gifts come in crumpled
sheets, quick jottings
on the feathers of red-winged
blackbirds to pin
her heart
on her bared shoulder.
No tattoos—this is
the thing itself. Not a needle
and inked recollection of another
person or place. She’s almost ready
to ask:
Do you wish to receive?
In the Ars Poetica Series
To beg, borrow, or steal
for this, to swing in an inked
playground, to live life
as a prayer opening
into another garden’s bloom,
to identify the shape
of a tiny island
now succumbed to a wetlands
birthright, to be willing
to start over
each morning
is what remains.
If I Could Have Been Eva 62
Somewhere way uptown
“Bird Lives.” Barefoot
and in love, two dart
through wet cement.
Pen pals will be
spawned. Stenciled
broken promises, the Bronx
could have come crumbling
down. But it’s held on
for the ride. When the last
of the writing on the wall
rolled along those tracks,
I arrived ready
to be winded
by those step streets.
I didn’t know it
would be the shape
shifting that would catch me
in the throat.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 