She might become a square foot
gardener. Her beds
raised and compact, she tends
to her slopes
as intensely as she used to
roll down them.
Wesleyan
No More Reunion
Lakes recede
to reveal
what we were thinking
before it
all began. You listened
so well, retained
everything, convinced me
to run
not always solo.
Geothermal energy
not wind power
you argued. I know nothing
about robotics, even less
about how to fathom
your mysterious exit. What
am I supposed to do
with that fact? You won’t
be returning to explain.
Wadsworth Falls, CT
Where was she
when they were giving
out licenses? Which daydream
distracted her
from motorized
vehicles? Which water
fall, where did
the trail go? Sitting beneath
one with him naked
decades ago, she didn’t
really care. Pistol
factories, textile mills, flume
or sluiceway is all that remains.
As if she could return.
Is It Mine Again?
Dumptruck sings “Get off
my island.” Used to be
my refrain even though
I’ve always known no one
(especially me) can really own
it. Just missed going to college
with one Dumptrucker. Shared a cab
from the Lower East Side to Prospect Heights
early one Sunday morning with another.
An oral history gets written
down. What gets lost
in translation becomes ghost
poems that only recite
themselves under waxing
crescent moons. But when they do,
you can hear them echo
up freshly rained-on empty streets
with titles like “urban spring” and “long live
the lighthouse keeper.”
There She Is
Not ready for the flash
mob to erase her
memory of him. Or
his name. She confesses
to her Connecticut days
and nights. No one
will recognize her
in this white tee, black
hoody, blue jeans, white
sneakers. She could—and
she will—take
another route home.
Higher Education
A fostering mother calls
to ask me not to forget
the way she dragged me
into city streets
to become a vehicle self-propelled.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 