I get lost
on my walk
to see you
in your lost
state. Boiled down
to a translucent film
at the bottom
of a pot, what’s left
will be our eyes
and our hands. They speak
a language
of truth.
truth
Who Embezzles Stars
Is the book
still king
on some other planet? Do inventions run
along parallel sun
rays? She asks
these questions without knowing
what to believe
anymore about the universe or red doors. Who
she might trust
to protect these poems
from shattering into weightless space debris
is who she might ask
to answer the rest.
The Dead Can’t Hurt
No longer in the run around, she traipses
across an invisible line
between mentor
and visitor, room
and mask, smile
and lie, tears
and truth, lover
and ghost. A new
preoccupation might not be so kind.
Fact or Fiction
The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you
opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river
deceit. The truth:
I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale.
The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?
The Best Thing To Do
To lift each piece
of mismatched furniture
to sweep beneath
is a risk
to find faith
in the ability to face
the ache and relief
and horror and
acceptance of a mystery
tragically solved.
Georgia One Revisited
To confuse sense
of place with your lap, accidental
falls with the truth
as it comes out when
I’m asleep is to reenter
those dreams I forget.
Day 2,703
Some days she’s not willing
to dig deep
below a scratched surface
truth. Some days she just wants
to see her
reflection crack
and walk on. Some
other days that become nights
she would rather go
blind than acknowledge
the visions trapping
her heart inside an under river
tunnel. This could be
one of those.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 