And you still stutter
though between her lips
it’s always night
or years from now
–the stars not yet alongside
have no seasons
brought this far
in the same darkness not even she
can remember wearing
as if it could fold back
by itself as mornings and waiting
–after all, how much more
can this dirt breathe in
before someone stops by
who’s lost, has forgotten why
only now it’s winter
that has something to do
with coming back and her arms.
And though they’re cold
they won’t answer to a single name
from when these flowers
covered the air with stone
and room for your shadow
where nothing was before
–what they want is more darkness
not these graves bunched the way bells
still overturn as that night sky
even you can’t wear for an earring
hear this dirt making the emptiness
somewhere inside your arms.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
Images by Elfie Hintington courtesy of the L. Tom Perry Special Collections, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah.
Copyright © 2016, Otis Nebula Press. All rights reserved.
