SIMON PERCHIK
*
Attack and this hillside
shows its teeth :each stone
drips with saliva
and even the glaze
can't tell the difference
-- you dig till the sun
enters at last
staggering the way each evening
is burned to the ground
laid bare in the smoke
all stones smell when struck
one against the other
and the dirt dragged away
still struggling
--you only want to share
though your hands won't dry
and each year less room
--you dig as if each hole
is filled with shoreline
could be held back
rebuilt from waves
from valleys and mountain streams
that whiten these stones
with cheeks and emptiness.
*
Still warm and the paint
darkening the way all walls
grieve --in just an hour
another coat though the floor
will cool first
lose its hold and the ground
--you're careful not to touch
where the corpse is listening
comforted with skin and bones
and gloss --over and over
that sing-along-song
where no one weeps
or remembers the words
and you let the roller drip
kept silent for so long.
*
It must welcome this light
sent up, banished and the sun
overflowing still can't wait
till morning --you will open the door
for something you're not sure, make room
the way a tree rests its branches
higher and higher and the room
kept empty for evenings
on their way back, bone-tired
hollowed out, barren, cold
and the door take in
the darkness :the dying down
and the slow, climbing turn
for which there is no word
no sound or below.
*
And though the rain has left
tired waiting for the slow descent
become your shadow reaching out
when no one looks --to lure it back
takes deception! you cover the windows
with silk and drop by drop the walls
stay damp while the sky
loses itself in your arms
--it's not your usual clouds
and you jump, afraid you'll drown
one hand held out, the other
kept empty for rain and the floor
making its way back --it works
--your shadow already lifting you
feet first, on your toes
as if it sees the sky surrounded
by other skies, in bits
and this dark place you hide.
*
As if the pump for the well
is carving her shoulders out
and the invisible stone
you will hold when it dries
broken up among the ruins
though some rocks
still squeeze one hand
too tight and the faucet
cover you with a place
that can not rest
--what you grip will be this cup
left over from the first death
no longer noon but a cramp
for which there is no potion
only her lips falling from the sky
almost empty, worn down
clings to the ground
as minutes, hours, evenings
--for years one hand
closing over the other
already a shadow
half grass, half thirst
half some vague hovering
inside your throat
--mouthful by mouthful only cold water
at last in the open
pulled up and still falling.
Attack and this hillside
shows its teeth :each stone
drips with saliva
and even the glaze
can't tell the difference
-- you dig till the sun
enters at last
staggering the way each evening
is burned to the ground
laid bare in the smoke
all stones smell when struck
one against the other
and the dirt dragged away
still struggling
--you only want to share
though your hands won't dry
and each year less room
--you dig as if each hole
is filled with shoreline
could be held back
rebuilt from waves
from valleys and mountain streams
that whiten these stones
with cheeks and emptiness.
*
Still warm and the paint
darkening the way all walls
grieve --in just an hour
another coat though the floor
will cool first
lose its hold and the ground
--you're careful not to touch
where the corpse is listening
comforted with skin and bones
and gloss --over and over
that sing-along-song
where no one weeps
or remembers the words
and you let the roller drip
kept silent for so long.
*
It must welcome this light
sent up, banished and the sun
overflowing still can't wait
till morning --you will open the door
for something you're not sure, make room
the way a tree rests its branches
higher and higher and the room
kept empty for evenings
on their way back, bone-tired
hollowed out, barren, cold
and the door take in
the darkness :the dying down
and the slow, climbing turn
for which there is no word
no sound or below.
*
And though the rain has left
tired waiting for the slow descent
become your shadow reaching out
when no one looks --to lure it back
takes deception! you cover the windows
with silk and drop by drop the walls
stay damp while the sky
loses itself in your arms
--it's not your usual clouds
and you jump, afraid you'll drown
one hand held out, the other
kept empty for rain and the floor
making its way back --it works
--your shadow already lifting you
feet first, on your toes
as if it sees the sky surrounded
by other skies, in bits
and this dark place you hide.
*
As if the pump for the well
is carving her shoulders out
and the invisible stone
you will hold when it dries
broken up among the ruins
though some rocks
still squeeze one hand
too tight and the faucet
cover you with a place
that can not rest
--what you grip will be this cup
left over from the first death
no longer noon but a cramp
for which there is no potion
only her lips falling from the sky
almost empty, worn down
clings to the ground
as minutes, hours, evenings
--for years one hand
closing over the other
already a shadow
half grass, half thirst
half some vague hovering
inside your throat
--mouthful by mouthful only cold water
at last in the open
pulled up and still falling.
Simon Perchik
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
