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
www.simonperchik.com
*
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.
you don't need the room.
~Simon Perchik
