March 2015
I live near the tip of Long Island New York and since my retirement, after 30 years of practicing law, I make the daily trip to town where I write for hours in the local coffee shops. My poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. My most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and my essay titled "Magic, Illusion and Other Realities" please visit my website at www.simonperchik.com.
This feeble kitchen match
leans the way a magician's cane
strikes the stage in flames
doves and all, shaking more dust
from that same darkness
each match shares with stars
left behind, in there somewhere
and your chest snap open
for those jack-in-the-box flowers
stretching out, confident
the dirt is warm, has no other use
—you will explode, give up everything
become an offering and the ice under you
weaker and weaker set out
for any minute now and your arm.
Inside this glove its fleece
pressing against the ground
keeps it warm even in the daytime
—what’s left for a pillow
touches her cheek the way your hand
reaches slowly across
though it's no longer needed
will work for nothing
just to rest as a quiet mound
giving birth and the snow
is used to it, covers her
with a makeshift lullaby
that lifts the dirt
for your arm going nowhere
then shoulder to shoulder.
Once you reach the window in back
the chair pretends to be in place
circles lower and lower
though it's you who can't keep up
and the rag, sometimes alone
sometimes holding on
—you don't open the canopy
afraid a breeze will come too close
lift the shade, take what's left
room by sunlit room—the rag
already wiping your cheek
smelling from smoke and inches.
Head-on and the shield curves in
till the wind is powerless
—you can see through and lift
becomes possible though the battle
has no name, just this map
wingtip to wingtip, unfolded
heated by some hillside
beating under the hood, working
the thermals—you smell smoke
but no one is listening
no one will get in the car with you
or along where this road
used to turn, then for a few minutes
didn't move—you don't touch the map
you don't need the room.
Helpless on the ground this dirt
is already salt, then darkness
though your mouth belongs
the way each winter your shadow
thaws as the flower
that no longer talks in the open
or wanders off to become the scent
that hides in your heart
and melting candles—dirt
is useless here—cold
is your shadow now, buried
in the darkness moving across
—you can barely hear the cries
watching over you, covering
this unbearable Earth.
leans the way a magician's cane
strikes the stage in flames
doves and all, shaking more dust
from that same darkness
each match shares with stars
left behind, in there somewhere
and your chest snap open
for those jack-in-the-box flowers
stretching out, confident
the dirt is warm, has no other use
—you will explode, give up everything
become an offering and the ice under you
weaker and weaker set out
for any minute now and your arm.
Inside this glove its fleece
pressing against the ground
keeps it warm even in the daytime
—what’s left for a pillow
touches her cheek the way your hand
reaches slowly across
though it's no longer needed
will work for nothing
just to rest as a quiet mound
giving birth and the snow
is used to it, covers her
with a makeshift lullaby
that lifts the dirt
for your arm going nowhere
then shoulder to shoulder.
Once you reach the window in back
the chair pretends to be in place
circles lower and lower
though it's you who can't keep up
and the rag, sometimes alone
sometimes holding on
—you don't open the canopy
afraid a breeze will come too close
lift the shade, take what's left
room by sunlit room—the rag
already wiping your cheek
smelling from smoke and inches.
Head-on and the shield curves in
till the wind is powerless
—you can see through and lift
becomes possible though the battle
has no name, just this map
wingtip to wingtip, unfolded
heated by some hillside
beating under the hood, working
the thermals—you smell smoke
but no one is listening
no one will get in the car with you
or along where this road
used to turn, then for a few minutes
didn't move—you don't touch the map
you don't need the room.
Helpless on the ground this dirt
is already salt, then darkness
though your mouth belongs
the way each winter your shadow
thaws as the flower
that no longer talks in the open
or wanders off to become the scent
that hides in your heart
and melting candles—dirt
is useless here—cold
is your shadow now, buried
in the darkness moving across
—you can barely hear the cries
watching over you, covering
this unbearable Earth.
©2015 Simon Perchik