It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start
the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),
a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide
that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him
but never got to know
who he was.
She makes it hard—purse
strap worn across the chest
NYC style. Jacket to camouflage
it when hung on the back
of a café chair. To admit to the grief
of knowing one who has chosen
to check out. What choice? Practice
makes perfect as she drifts
back and forth
between stages once again. No two
alike—no prediction
when acceptance might spill
onto the round table with change.
Get any closer to the mouth
piece could kill you. The bitch
in me steps outside
the invisible line I draw
each morning. I wasn’t paying
attention. Never thought I could
turn anything out. But fear
and pride conspire to plot
a demise—not mine. Not a suicide
left in the garden.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 