To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
reunion
Routes and Revivals
Nobody would mistake
a runner’s
log for poetry. No true
run could be
anything less. Or honest
obsession begin
any way other than head
first into the deep
end of risk
and nostalgia. I am
nobody waiting
to meet you
again. Then again
who am I
to be so mistaken
by fresh water
over warped notes?
DNR—Or Do
I can almost taste
the snow—nothing
good ever comes
from that. A late March double
espresso might neutralize
the palate. Might
not. A family
reunion in August resuscitated
to honor my father. I
never went when he was
alive. How can I
go now? August is
the month of grand
gestures, spiritual releases.
August is
the month he left
us. Yes, I told him
he could let go, but
how could I know
what it would be like
to live in a world without
his heart beating
in it? August is the month
when water
falling majesty just
might return.
Charade Stage
I would recognize that voice—not
the person using it—anywhere. For you,
maybe eyes. Reunions
only work if there was a union
to begin with. It’s no time
for atonement or ridiculous
honesty. Not going
to lean into this one.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 