Ten Poems—Fall 2017

By Simon Perchik

*

A jacket could trick my arms

help me forget once they leave

though what I become

 

has lips and around each shoulder

both sleeves fit the way skies

still overflow, break free

 

settle down, neatened

as if this mirror was still looking

could hear, I don’t see you, louder.

 

 

*

You hover the way each memory

stands by –the faintest scent

breathes down your brain

 

till its dust reeks from moonlight

and you cover your arms with air

holding them down, drag this table

 

more than enough for clouds

and though nothing falls

you’re sure it’s safe to exhale

 

making room in your heart

for the smell from skies

and what they too wanted back.

 

 

*

Heated by sand each word

gathers up another

one teaspoon at a time

 

–your fever can’t be found

though the address was written

from salt and glass –you don’t see

 

the envelope :the bottle

crowding you from inside

has to be taken by mouth

 

as if a lull made any difference

without the pieces to settle down

and already your throat tastes bitter.

 

 

*

Once it reaches this sink

the sun takes nothing back

lets you place water

 

and forever it’s your shadow

wandering the Earth

the way all twins are born

 

already cold –you rinse

as if moonlight were leaving it

damaged, a scar would come

 

so this cup you hold you hold

twice, gropes alongside

as darkness though the faucet

 

still leaks, flows through your arms

draining hillside after hillside

from riverbeds and almost there.

 

 

*

A single charm and the air

slows though what you breathe in

is clustered with stones

 

falling into stones –even here

you use the ruined

to anchor between one miracle

 

and another –shoulder to shoulder

with no place to go these graves

are opened for stars

 

half coming back, half

the way your breath covers the dirt

takes hold and lifts from under.

 

 

 

*

You expect more from rain, point

though cupped in your hand

there’s no sign when these stones

 

pulled it to the ground

as mouths broken open

devouring the Earth

 

–all that’s left standing

is the way moonlight enters

with just enough darkness

 

to touch down everywhere at once

and not have to remember –the sky

owes you, should stick

 

cover your skin with a toss

made from a single name

coming to a close –splash

 

is what you count on

–place to place watering

the small door that opens at night.

 

 

 

*

Not yet certain, half stone

half held back –wave after wave

rattles it, makes it start over

 

louder, distracted by the sound

that is not your shoulders

gathering around this grave

 

no longer facing the fragrance

riverbeds become once they dry

by calling out to each other

 

clog your mouth with salt and nearby

–what you hear is edging closer

has doubts, lost count

 

the way these rocks are winded

and one by one broken up

as flowers and your arms.

 

 

 

*

Dragging one leg you dust

the way sunlight changes colors

once it touches down and this rag

 

spreading out along the limp

that carries you away

wiping off weeds, winds

 

and those webs spiders are taught

to listen with just their shadow

for distances –you smother

 

as if one death would point

where the others let you

and cover the Earth

 

with mouths that never close

though you tug, taking root

in wobble, losing hold

 

strutting into these corners

pulled by a closeness

that is not dirt or moving.

 

 

 

 

*

Inside this glass its sand

flowing between the hours

and shoreline –you drink

 

waves, not sure one grave

would pull you under

give in to the small stones

 

you swallow twice

covering your mouth

with beach grass, harbors

 

and sea birds flying toward you

no longer keeping track

bringing you more cries

 

and expect an answer –you water

rock that never ripens
though your shadow

 

is rotting on the ground

pouring from these dead

as moonlight and left behind.

 

 

 

*

And though you dread the mail

this note is used to her arms

folding over your eyes

 

brushing aside the dust

that’s unimportant now

–you can’t make out the name

 

floating up as salt, empty

with some small sea beginning

clings the way every envelope

 

is carried along, half evenings

half sinking back into darkness

and word after word while they last.

___

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The Osiris Poems published by box of chalk, 2017. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.


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