He didn’t learn
his long division
in time. She began to walk
to school when she was three. Photos
of lighthouses do not
sink. She missed
her chance to belong
to one island
when she cheated. Fell
in love
with another. Manhattan.
Strangely, it still comes as a surprise—
it is one too.
He was minus three
when those songs from heaven
were playing on
AM radio. I was zero.
When he was zero, I was
in Northern Illinois
learning how
to say three instead
of free.
I would never be
so much so again. No multiples
will return me
to that coincidence—one
he’ll never know.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 