Simon Perchik
And the Earth leans across
And the Earth leans across
as if it was once a star
looking in the dark
half hillside, half breaking up
on the rocks filled with water
though there's no moon
coming back and the sea brings nothing
for the long, wooden handle
in every tree, every leaf
—she has turned to bone
for years tearing herself loose
the way this shovel gathers rust
going door to door and night
—you almost say her name
but it's too dark and your lungs
are swollen from her breasts on fire
in your hands—you don't dig anymore
make for her first breath a jaw barely open
already a mouth you can brush against
and bleed—you dig like a dog
who lays down and follows her.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Poetry, Queen's Quarterly, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning more about him are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other Realities at www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which site lists a complete bibliography.
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