*
Lost and you watch the sun worsen
already falling as the nights
too weak to warm your shadow
though you read only in the afternoon
crouched under this kitchen table
with nothing on it that could sag
and without a sound weigh too much
let you open the mail, return to life
the window left in this small room
–you can tell from the stamp
it’s easy to fear
–so frail is its darkness
only your hands can be seen
holding your forehead, pushing it back in
to remember where you live.
*
By yourself though the sun
still needs more water –all that land
dried for just one afternoon
sent back alone and every morning now
you let the coffee try, boil
the way this table is spreading out
become the dirt for what’s in store
ready made as that small mouthful
that swallows you whole
to look for thirst inside a cup
side by side this one kept full
as if it was at home.
*
And though this pillow is enough
you still come by at night
safe from sand and salt
–with both elbows on the bed
your clothes in a heap
–what you can’t say
is soaking in sea grass
and her clothes too
no longer moving, piled close
for encouragement, lift your head
–on a dark bed, stroking an empty dress
Mickie, Mickie, Mickie
as far as it can reach
with her hand over your mouth
one sleeve at a time.
*
You no longer dig for shadows
as if this hillside depends on you
for water –what you hear
is trapped between two suns
one circling the other till nothing’s left
but the afternoon and beneath
letting its pieces fall off –you dead
are always listening for the gesture
the lowering that sweeps in
those pebbles mourners leave
as words, overflowing, certain
now is the time –it’s not the time
this dirt is afraid to open
become a rain again, be a sky
let it speak by throwing the Earth
and over your shoulder, eyes closed
though there is no grass
and your arms a Weber, Miller, Marie.
*
Even as silence you dead
favor knots, brought here
the way each grave is tightened
counts on constant gathering
and the arm over arm
that hold the skies together
as if some nesting bird
would fly out from this hillside
and leave behind its wings
spread-eagle, letting go
those small rocks mourners bring
for your shoulders –you want rope
not for its name but the weight
still taking shape inside, kept empty
and all around you the lowering.
*
Wobbling on rocks and salt
scented with little goodbyes
–you’re drowning in wood
–don’t fool yourself, this door
can’t save you now, it’s filled
with corners still into the turn
already seawater and on the way down
a warm face though talk won’t come
is hiding in back your mouth
naked, afraid your lips will move
as the silence the dead adore
without leaving the room.
*
It was a brook, had names
though these bottom stones
are still draining, passing you by
before letting go the silence
that stays after each hand opens
–you dead are always reaching out
–end over end unfolding your arms
the way each star ends its life alone
in the darkness it needs to move closer
become the light in every stone
as the morning that never turns back
keeps falling without any mourners.
*
It’s grass growing on the mirror
and every Spring more smoke
blacking your teeth –the dress
looks like hers, tossed off
piece by favorite piece and death
not yet shoulders and hips
–without a fuss she is touching you
though you are moving closer
as the lips that wait inside
and smoldering –it’s half a mirror
hardly enough for its kisses to fall out
look at each other and the afternoons.
*
You lace one shoe with thread, the other
as if this wooden spool could be held
spin end over end and hold you
by the hand, let you feel her body
no longer moving as the careless tug
in all directions at once –you learn
to limp, to hear dirt struggle
and the step by step as if it could escape
not yet leaching in your hands.
*
You gargle the way each morning
trusts the soft rustle from a dress
becoming dirt, set out on foot
looking for her in shadows
that no longer move though the sink
is covered with something weak
making believe it’s learned where
your fingers are holding the bottle
in a place not even it will remember
how empty your mouth is, lost
day after day spitting into the Earth
that still opens when you whisper to it.
*
You water her grave with words
–they never dried, were written
at night, sure this stone
would rot inside the note
though you don’t fold your arms
–what spills has eddies, swells
shorelines reaching into the Earth
no longer certain –this stone
doesn’t recognize itself
is growing roots, sags
becomes a sea, the bottom
holds on, unable to stand
or come closer, cover her
without seeing your fingers
or what it’s like.
*
Hiding on this tiny rock
its light is falling arm over arm
brought down as hammer blows
and mountains clinging to the sun
the way mourners will gather
and aim for your forehead
–it’s not right for you dead
to lower your eyes once they’re empty
–they have so much darkness
are still looking for tears
and all around you the Earth
splitting open a single afternoon
up close –you are touching seawater
without anything left inside
to take the salt from your mouth.
___
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 boxofchalk 2017. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
To view one of his interviews please follow this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8
Friday, June 21st, 2019 10:48 am
Categories: Archives, Issue 12.4, Poetry
