Simon Perchik

Cinque poemi

 

 

 

You teach this rag how, fold in

its corners, edges, to close

and afterwards wood is everywhere

 

lies down inside you

as if there is still a place

no longer rising to the surface

 

though all dust is patient

smells from dried-up riverbeds

one above the other

 

the way these shelves

were left behind to bathe you

with roots and harbors

 

–you teach this rag

time, cover each board

lowered slowly into a floor

 

that is not years later

–for the first time its brightness

turning to footsteps and further.

 

*

                  

Not the paper you write on

yet your arms are warmed

the way each mother all night

 

will feed her child’s first cry

open one breast for food

the other without a sound

 

though you can still make out

where the flames are coming from

once these flowers are unwrapped

 

and singing all at once

as cradlesong –you almost hear

the hot coals freezing in midair

 

closer and closer to one another

–you never forget this hunger

and in your mouth ice.

 

*

 

Always more –stepping-stones

scented with the slow bend

in a river burning itself out

 

–they tire easily

are lying on the grass

winding things up

 

though sometime the sound

comes from the small rocks

breaking off for the dead        

 

then left where snow is expected

from your shoulder and hers

–there is so little room

 

and she is just one person

turning back a long time

without anything to lose.

 

*

 

You approach from above

expect the sun

at your back, the sink

 

blinded by spray

the way every stream

is born knowing how

 

scrapes bottom

till its stones ignite

explode into oceans

 

then islands broken apart

for the skies still following

a rain that’s not here

 

–you’re used to this

–the same cracked cup

rinsed till its glaze

 

cools and it’s safe

to dry your arms

the floor, the walls.

 

*

 

This dirt still mimics sweat

lies down alongside, unsure

your lips would quiet it

         

though the finger that is familiar

probably is yours –could be enough

has already learned to point

 

–in time it will silence

even your shadow

without pulling it back down

         

as sunsets passing by

no longer some shoreline

unable to stop for these pebbles

         

struggling to rise together, take you

by the hand and without a sound

recognize the gesture.

 

 

 

Simon Perchik is a regular contributor to DM. He writes from an undisclosed location in the Hamptons.