*
Just hours old and the Earth
already trying to find water
̶ it's how you learn
follow each other though the sun
was slower then, not yet damp
from funerals one by one
and the day to day search
the way you dead hear light
as shoreline asking for help
from whoever comes by
with tears picked clean
̶ you cup your hands
as if this dirt was once a sea
̶ so much dew still being sifted
with what it would be like to grieve.
*
No more than a clink, impatient
would surprise you though this wall
is used to stones that gather
where a tower should be
̶ what you dead heard was the cry
when another grave is born
and some three billion year old rock
makes a sound, has the faint voice
that left you to hollow out the Earth
the way all bells are made
from what it's like to grieve
for so long and in silence.
*
One cup kept empty and side by side
as if forgiveness is a service
due when you shake the dust off
and the other overflows with coffee
heats your mouth with lips
that blacken when one hand
is grasped by the other and the spill
towed to where the dead overflow
as evenings :an entitlement
that returns the darkness
before the sun comes back
brings the light that once was water
fills this small cup with a morning
you will clear with a soft rag
holding it close to the wooden table.
*
From behind the bird in the showcase
the boy looking out the picture is you
still counting each feather backwards
as if waiting for the zero would finish
with the pocket-size wings still pinned
warmed by the stuffed leather jacket
̶ it stopped raining though through glass
every drizzle becomes a shroud
made tighter by the slow, climbing turn
into your headstone, wet, wedged
as if sirens and smoke already pulled it
halfway out, is looking one by one.
*
You cup your hands around the rim
as if time no longer wants you
though the mountain spring that died
couldn't have weighed much more itself
still smells from side to side
and reaching out as waves ̶ you drink
over and over empty the water
so wherever it shows up it's cold
will hide you now that death
is so thirsty, fits into a glass
can be seen still gathering
has your eyes, owes you nothing.
Author Bio:
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 Reflection in a Glass Eye 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.
To view one of his interviews please follow this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8
Just hours old and the Earth
already trying to find water
̶ it's how you learn
follow each other though the sun
was slower then, not yet damp
from funerals one by one
and the day to day search
the way you dead hear light
as shoreline asking for help
from whoever comes by
with tears picked clean
̶ you cup your hands
as if this dirt was once a sea
̶ so much dew still being sifted
with what it would be like to grieve.
*
No more than a clink, impatient
would surprise you though this wall
is used to stones that gather
where a tower should be
̶ what you dead heard was the cry
when another grave is born
and some three billion year old rock
makes a sound, has the faint voice
that left you to hollow out the Earth
the way all bells are made
from what it's like to grieve
for so long and in silence.
*
One cup kept empty and side by side
as if forgiveness is a service
due when you shake the dust off
and the other overflows with coffee
heats your mouth with lips
that blacken when one hand
is grasped by the other and the spill
towed to where the dead overflow
as evenings :an entitlement
that returns the darkness
before the sun comes back
brings the light that once was water
fills this small cup with a morning
you will clear with a soft rag
holding it close to the wooden table.
*
From behind the bird in the showcase
the boy looking out the picture is you
still counting each feather backwards
as if waiting for the zero would finish
with the pocket-size wings still pinned
warmed by the stuffed leather jacket
̶ it stopped raining though through glass
every drizzle becomes a shroud
made tighter by the slow, climbing turn
into your headstone, wet, wedged
as if sirens and smoke already pulled it
halfway out, is looking one by one.
*
You cup your hands around the rim
as if time no longer wants you
though the mountain spring that died
couldn't have weighed much more itself
still smells from side to side
and reaching out as waves ̶ you drink
over and over empty the water
so wherever it shows up it's cold
will hide you now that death
is so thirsty, fits into a glass
can be seen still gathering
has your eyes, owes you nothing.
Author Bio:
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 Reflection in a Glass Eye 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.
To view one of his interviews please follow this link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MSK774rtfx8
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