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 which site lists a complete bibliography.


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