poems by Simon Perchik
*
After all, it was the rain, a day
no one died and the sun now is here
demanding cake, red hot
still glowing, one candle
centered to make good --just one day
but enough room for those clouds
to get in the way, half rain
half that short-lived happiness
filling my hands the way all fruit
ripens, sweetens the air --I owe the sun
something lit, held out
--on that Fall-like day my feet
never touched down --it was the rain
seeping into my side
that became the river no one leaves.
And now? I lift this cake
as if its shadow will take my place
--I offer the sun what it wants
to be seen spreadeagle, circling
the sky that is its own
wants nothing between my arms
--I offer it another year, the cake
roasted, slit with a knife
held slack, stroking the damp grass
the damp wings, the willing shadow
--even that is not enough, the candles
are never at peace though my soft breath
says nothing about the flames
not the smoke, not the cake
that becomes a silent hole
dissolving in seawater where the sun
collects what it can
from my emptied hands, my single cry.
*
They must learn it from the sun
--at the first freeze
these leaves lose courage
after awhile end their struggle
though I clutch my belly
and with my other hand
drag this door open
sideways --the sound a train makes
when leaving a city.
You say it's not the sudden noise
that it's my gloves
and trees are taught to run
as best they can, getting some help
from the sun who is already cold
falling back, letting go
or mostly it's birds
whose plumage is that same trembling
leaves lick from the air
or the time I emptied the house
in a blizzard --books, rugs, chairs
emptied! stacked one thing over another
and nothing touched the trees
not the bed, not the table, not the coats
side by side swollen from snow
or have you gone away
--this great thirst
drop by shriveled drop
without a mouth, without arms
following you
falling haywire at noon.
*
The plank reaching down for waves
half hidden in sand, half feathers
and sunlight below the waterline
--your heel will remember the splinter
and these few minutes holding you
on an Earth already swollen from hulls
and undertow --the shore
listing, breaking up
waiting to capsize :with each step
one foot even without a shoe
will tighten the way during the war
pilots were trained to watch
where the sky is shallow in places
--the slightest breeze
will be painful, your limp
make a slow, climbing turn
and the sun who lifts then lowers
--one foot will always run aground
so you never forget the tweezer
taking hold, making room, unraveling
wing over wing --you watch
how death is learned
and the wrenched calm
you need for later though at the end
you closed your eyes, must know
even now, from far off
a wave-like darkness
is flying alongside you
almost overhead, crumbling
--you must know this beach loves you.
*
I tell you it's a bell, the funeral
will pass by any minute now, days
weeks, between these quarters, dimes
and pennies --Leave it for the sweeper
but I say these coins
do their own thing, do what they want done
become the waterdrops the dead
listen for and every night both pockets
are poured across this floor
the way mourners will lean to one side
long afterward. You're used to this.
You hear only my pants falling
my shoes, socks, shorts
and those old nights closer
little by little, drenched
are breathing though I can't bend down
without these chimes wobbling
into hearses, grass, small stones
and one is always moonlight
always in a far branch where you
are picking fruit, back and forth
holding my hands
--I want to look up, without a word
move your lips, your breasts, your hair.
*
Nothing, not your name
the way a weightlifter
cups both hands and my back
almost breaks --I bring you flowers
the kind they once made gods from
helped slow down the summer
made a picnic here that lasts
fixes the Earth in bedrock
--I bring a stone
you bring a stone --with one hand
I hold it to my ear, listen
for your arms stretching out
underwater :a grass taking root
slippery, almost green
and overhead one wing
is singing to the other
half circling, half
secret passageways that can't clot
is shaking again
though I squeeze it tighter
for whispers, for the light
from your cheeks --no one
can stop it, nothing and endless stones.