December 2, 2014


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, 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


Inside this glove its fleece

pressing against the ground

keeps it warm even in the daytime

–what’s left for a pillow

touches her cheek the way your hand

reaches slowly across

though it's no longer needed

will work for nothing

just to rest as a quiet mound

giving birth and the snow

is used to it, covers her

with a makeshift lullaby

that lifts the dirt

for your arm going nowhere

then shoulder to shoulder.


Once you reach the window in back

the chair pretends to be in place

circles lower and lower

though it's you who can't keep up

and the rag, sometimes alone

sometimes holding on

--you don't open the canopy

afraid a breeze will come too close

lift the shade, take what's left

room by sunlit room --the rag

already wiping your cheek

smelling from smoke and inches.


Head-on and the shield curves in

till the wind is powerless

--you can see through and lift

becomes possible though the battle

has no name, just this map

wingtip to wingtip, unfolded

heated by some hillside

beating under the hood, working

the thermals --you smell smoke

but no one is listening

no one will get in the car with you

or along where this road

used to turn, then for a few minutes

didn't move --you don't touch the map

you don't need the room.

~Simon Perchik

Total Pageviews