Simon Perchik
Untitled
*
All those nights two suns running free
– with a clear look at each other
could see how bright her face becomes
when the window pane unfolds on fire
spreads out that long-ago afternoon
end over end though the shade
is reaching for the sill – a constellation
and still her arms are frozen open
as if this snapshot was trying to breathe twice
make you think you are covering her eyes
are in the room alone, holding on to what’s left
letting it flicker, wait for something in the light
to move closer together, fit into her mouth
so it can see you as the bed no longer made
as the wall and empty picture frame.
*
This coffee is still learning, spills
sweetens night after night
the way fireflies flavor their legs
then wait for the rippling hum
that’s not a bat – you teach this cup
smoke, emptiness and what it’s like
to lean across as come right in
let you sip from the black dress
spreading out as mountainside
– with your eyes closed, with honey
you convince this cup to clasp your hand
move it closer to the other
though the darkness already smells
from flypaper, from your elbows
holding on to the wooden table.
*
You start the way this faucet drips
– piece by piece give back
an afternoon no longer moving
never know what it would become
or how to turn back – each drop
wants to be the last, arrive alone
– it’s the usual sink, reaching down
to find a place in the Earth for you
for the rinds and peels and evening
that has no place else to go
– what’s missing is the sun
near trees, on some hillside
where it would build another grave
from cornerstones and broken dishes
with nights pressed one against the other.
Simon Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.