I drink hot
coffee in the rising
heat to cool
off. It works
the way no liquid could
when I was
drunk. When I would use
any day of the week
during any season
as an excuse. But nothing
can stop me
from memorizing
the long light of now.
sober
Beneath Her
No chance for nighttime
dreaming—a neighbor’s dance
beat disruptions wreck
any hope
of true REM. Her tolerance
for talking to drunks
has diminished
over a decade in reprieve
till it’s shrunk
to the size of a single shot
of espresso
she’s going to sip
in the morning start-over.
Day 3,000
Three thousand days, three thousand nights, hands off
bottles, a mouth that forms
new words like foreign objects
on the tongue. This counting is not done
on fingers or in the head. It springs forth
mid-tally from a soul
she can count on most days.
Day 751 (Solstice Passages)
I don’t remember
the sock monkey, but do
remember our fear
of it. My shadow tripped
over its own darkness
onto stumble
down tracks that no longer
exist. Today I remember
to find light in these
shortest of days,
have almost perfected turning
a corner
into a new moment’s alley
on an evening
you don’t have to carry
me home.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 