*
Every door now is North
letting in the cold though the knob
still corrects for drift, the lost
and the way in that never closes
comes with a bedside lamp
to warm the room as if it
no longer moves, has become
the small hole in your chest
that points in only one direction
to keep you from falling asleep
–with both hands you cling to the dim light
turning you on your side, still too early.
*
From here, a train will do, freight cars
end on end, overcome with gravel
that needs to be some place else
–you have to leave by yourself
–nobody can do it for you
though you hold one hand in the other
tightening it till the rails
are water and you drift downstream
the way a small stone lifts the sea
as moonlight and you arrive alone
on the cross-ties made from wood
that is not a river to cross, welcomes you
by stretching out, taking you along
with no one where the whistle ends
except the so much time that passed.
*
Still, it’s gone and though the candle
is still day to day
you can tell from the melt
how much love there was
–what you touch is the long fall
where a sea should be
listening for streams
the way these matches
are following each other,
striking the Earth by cupping your hands
around its emptiness
–over and over opening the ground
for smoke as if after so many times
clump by clump
you could get it all out.
*
You wait for this blossom to pounce
seize its prey and between each petal
gnaw at the sky –in such a gust
your arms give birth to an afternoon
that would become the fragrance
whose first breath is acorns and chestnuts
and smoke that shines as if the Earth
was once a sun, warmed by hills
and the rocks that no longer move
were left behind the way shadows
now disappear for a minute or forever
though you use your fingers to find a fist
that’s scented with flowers that open
and close in a room made by a gardener
from this small rake and the cold.
*
Plane after plane till all the pieces
arrive as flowers –it’s winter
returning now to nest and every morning
begins with an ancient chill
unfolding over and over for lift
and mountains though you take hold
try to escape its turbulence
–against all odds you become a breeze
are losing altitude, your voice slows
then stalls, spins and the scent
falls against your chest as snow
that stays in one place and waits.
*
Without their soft shell your eyes
still talk about the sea and old men
waiting on a bench for some boat
to dim and go out the way the words
for goodbye cling to your eyelids
and each other though what you hear
are the cries for light that lasts forever
as shoreline and what follows
when your eyes close for the silence
the dead never forget by telling you
about its emptiness, how gentle it is
smells from salt and the darkness.
*
As if the small stones were not yet ashes
you walk with one foot bare
count these graves two by two
reaching out for the naked breast
as some ancient lullaby
pressed against the warm mud
whispering over and over though one word
is always missing, taken from your mouth
till there’s none –in such a silence
you limp, clinging to this smokestack
drained for its marble, its marshes
its darkness and undertow.
*
Face to face though the first tomorrow
was not yet needed, waited in the Earth
as the promise to become a morning
and she would arrive between two suns
where there was none before
was the nights, years, centuries
your shadow took to darken, clings
till its silence washes over you
carried as dew and beginnings.
*
Drop by drop, its silence
holds on to the mud and each other
though this puddle sparkles
from tides that are not sunlight
–what you hear are the shells
darkening and their nest
breaking open for more air
the way you toss in a pebble
just to hear its ripples
as the splash from your first day
still reaching for shore, lower, lower
and flight no longer possible.
*
Compared to its actors in love
the movie darkens with The End
and though the stage no longer moves
you reach behind the blackening pit
grasp its gigantic monster –four eyes
four lips, four arms opening and closing
devouring itself and the screen
not yet covered with flowers
asking you to leave though the usher
has heard it all before, says it’s safe
even with the lights on, with the grass
and aisles growing over you.
*
You need rain water, boiled
till the splash makes it to shore
and the egg becomes a morning
–pots know this, the hurry-up
and wait the way your hand
clings to the still warm shell
as if it was once the soft light
falling off the sun, is moving closer
to where a chair should be
have a shadow to follow it
by reaching across the table
surrounding it with a darkness
that smells from moist leaves
and the sap when this table
had corners, sides and a lid
lifted for smoke that waited
for the night, was hidden in small fires
that slowly eat their dead.
*
With just a rifle, lean, taut
and though there’s no helmet
one eye is swollen, keeps staring
which means the boots no longer move
–in such a silence you hear
a marching song, still warm
from the foundry when this toy
was molten iron and step by step
setting fires with ink from letters home
black, blacker till there’s no stars
where North should be –that
and why are you holding it so deft
helping it guide each night down
in the dew you dead still listen for
is spreading out behind this dam
half hillside, half being built
with so many unknowns
rusting in place, one by one.
___
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
Monday, March 30th, 2015 11:54 am
Categories: Archives, Issue 8.4, Poetry
