Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
*
Before
there was an evening one arm
was already at home as that nightfall
these headstones count on for balance
grasp at the small weight you drop inside
from habit, still splash though oceans
formed this way before –these slabs
are used to it, leaning against the wind
half marble, half that survive
as another hillside glistening on your arm
kept damp though there's no moon –nothing
will dry all those years falling behind
in a small sea that won't let go.
*
This
twig could just as easily
be a hurricane, drained then swept away
though it must sense downhill
with dying wood –what you collect
you steady between two fingers
already sunlight and ashes
and any second now
this scrap left for dead
will split in half and disbelief
–a
random snap
as if you had forgotten
to count backwards, not sure
once you reach the emptiness
it will still answer, tell you
how to follow behind
well after well, filled
with passageways and slowly
you take up the slack, the unfit
the shaky wearing out in a circle
half sunlight, half chasing off
the cold broken open, infected
with fires that never recover.
*
And
this stone turns its back
the way streams even in snow
crush you under the descent
smelling from moonlight
and toward each other
though there's still some rain inside
all night flowing beneath your feet
as gravel and whispers
–with
one sharp stone
you open your mouth as if she
is more thirsty than the others
and every path glows with ice
is singing that old love song
carried in your arms
clearing the way to her lips
and one by one each night
heavier, reaches up
for the darkness and go.
~Simon Perchik
