With each handful you dead
breathe in, nourished by dirt
by these leaves half stone
half come to a stop -without a breeze
your mouth smells from some quarry
that has no past -you are fed
among flowers and slowly behind
go on eating, adored, immense
seething with mountains
no longer outside, creaking
or far away another bedside
fragrant with lips and whispers.
It’s this thin envelope, empty, closed
gasping for air though your knuckles
are still flickering -what you hold
was never mailed, lets you rest
read the address over and over
just to move it further off
away from this boiling mountainside
ripping apart, flowing down your arm
with nothing left and cools -these days
you don’t lick the glue -in all directions
your mouth is her name, alone
coming back as ashes and snow.
You count with your throat
drink from waiting lists
as if these stones are nourished
end over end -test their glow
for hidden sores and darkness
that want to circle back
touch you on the neck
the way shores pass each other
cleared for water and closer
poured slow -keep score
let you seal their thirst
filled with dirt and the need
to sip -you carry a small spoon
just to stir and step by step
pointing out ribbons, braids.
Simon Perchik’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.
Steel Toe Review 