*
And the river falling into you
lies down the way you are fed
by stones that no longer open
as rain and your breath
never seen again, left in the dirt
these graves are used to
is all they know --with each meal
a far off night bursts into flames
once it’s singled out, fills your mouth
as if it would not happen twice
and yet you eat only in cemeteries
in a sea whose water has dried
to become for the dead
a new language, easy to whisper
over and over and the heading.
*
Another fold though the paper
is already clogged, scented
with granite --this endless letter
lies down exhausted, spaces
appear over and over
then emptied by hand
--it happens every time, the ink
dries without lips, no mouth
nothing between this page
and the hour after hour
where every word is her name
wants it down in black and white
left in the open the way you learned
to speak through stone, whisper
as if you were still living.
*
You crumple this hat the way a hole
changes color, is held in place
lets your forehead hide, circle down
end over end setting fires --what you try on
no longer smells from rain or stays
or turned low in the mirror
remembers to burn in the open
as the sound falling from dirt
and broken loose though you walk away
just to walk away :a damaged toss
with less than there were
no longer over your shoulder or done.
*
So you let the water boil
as if you were not yet born
and already breathing it
can barely make out the bubbles
burdened by sunlight
the way some ancient sea
struggles inside, hangs on to bells
--it’s a battered pot, beaten
and the dead who still ask why reefs
are needed now that your throat
is so heavy from cup after cup
and the few tears left over
for a single heart that would become
yours, is floating toward you
emptied for shade and piece by piece.
*
This field has so many lips
and though the fire is out
these clouds still darken --each breath
overflows with icy streams
and stones left out to dry --it’s natural
for a sky to let itself in
the way your shadow on impulse
looks down and in the open
grieves with the only mouth it knows
--you’ve done this before, her grave
rubbed between your hands
and the one wish more, each time
the mist along the edge
falls off in flames, becomes
on and on no other place to go
unrolls this gravel path
still counting on your fingers
sure its hunch is right.
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 Osiris Poems published by box of chalk, 2017. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.