All the world’s
an ice rink
this morning before
the sun (no one can see
through freezing rain
and fear) fully rises. Where
did it go
when these bones began
to break and drop
to the lacquered
ground? Whose bones
will replace those
missing from this new silence?
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Varnished giclée prints drop her
onto an old farmstead’s surround
with pronounced trees
and roots. She is relieved
not to be
the only one who needs a public
place to be open today—one
besides a church,
or cineplex. She’s more interested
in tiny rebirths
than one monumental birth—those moments
that can unpack themselves
onto any given day’s matte canvas.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 