If I drove a car, it would
not have one. If
I had a baby, I would
try not to overindulge it.
If I built a cottage
near the ocean, I would
be careful not to ruin
the view. If I knew
the ending to a movie, I would
keep it to myself. If
I had a lover, I would
inevitably do just that
before it went too far.
Unfortunately.
spill
Ferried
A violent thought drives
him to grab
the nearest railing
so he won’t spill
himself onto the deck.
The calm water
is a song
he wrote before he knew
how to speak
to women with mouths
like hers. White knuckles
and wet wrists, he remembers
now. Oh, that’s right.
No Rote
Entangled in a net of no one
to blame’s making, I forget
what I said yesterday
about this pier and its hurricane
scars. About to begin
another plunge into dense
deconstructions
of choppy water. About to listen
for those dirges we prepared, buried
in this sand before I began
to follow musicians around with this
spill—I don’t forget theirs,
they come ashore with ease.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 