Untitled – Simon Perchik
*
This is it –a match, wood, lit
the way a butterfly returns
by warming its wings wider
and wider, one against the other
then waits for the gust to spew out
as smoke lifting you to the surface
–this single match circling down
half on fire, half held close
is heating your grave, has roots
–embrace it, become a flower
fondle the ashes word by word
that erupt from your mouth
as an old love song, a breeze
worn away by hills and the light
coming back then lying down.
*
It’s not the sink –what you hear
is the sun all night calling its mothers
though their embrace still arrives
as thirst and the morning –two stars
brighter and brighter till the sun
is born at the exact minute it needs
to bury its darkness in the fragrance
smoke gives off as clouds and the longing
for rain rising from the sea –you splash
and between each finger its shadow
begins to breathe, is hugging you
with the wet towel and its hidden body.
*
This cup listening for shells is filled
and emptied as if the waves inside
are making room for the slow, wide turn
that won’t let go –you drink from a spoon
dug in the way a fossil is pulled down
takes refuge as stone that falls by itself
–arm over arm you cling to the side
not yet the rocks mourners will lure
as shoreline sweetened with sea grass.
and though the table is wood it’s trembling
circles down for smoke coming to life
where standing water should be.
*
You are always afternoons
flowering slowly around this stone
as light –you can see
who was here, who wept
who left with both fists
holding your last breath
that’s still not over, warming it
for the kisses two by two
lowered into your mouth
the way an evening will listen
to anyone who promises
your arms will separate again
take in a hundred rivers
bringing you an old love song
and not know who, who?
*
From among the poisons a box
half cardboard, half wiping the sweat
from your fingertips where you reach in
for the pellets, for that last day
with the lid left open for mice
the way the cashier is used to her uniform
unbuttoned and without looking up
sweetens it with those medals
you want so much to shine
while she slowly leans toward you
must know your hands are suffering
and there’s so much you want to tell her.
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 Weston Poems published by Cholla Needles Arts & Literary Library, 2020. For more information including free e-books and his essay “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.