by Simon Perchik
*
This bird must hear the blood
all day nesting in its gut
slit open to catch rainwater
draining some roof the way your hand
dries from the balcony half feathers
half seaweed—it listens
for waves, each one now motionless
bending over the other
—two deaths from one botched egg
though there are no leaves to fall
to gather more sky for the flight back
and you are singing alone, slow
getting the words wrong
caressing its belly with the same breeze
now bathing it—you rinse the blade
still sharpening itself on its shadow
back and forth till the sea
no longer reflects just one sky
stranded, unshapely—a monster
covered with wings already stone
clinging to you even over water.
*
When this clock holds back
its scent has meaning
—even dogs are trained
for lies or no lies—truth
has a calm to it, by instinct
soothes this kitchen wall
flows underneath as bone
and sleeplessness—you wait
for night to reset the hands
teach them honesty
practice till the weak one
hardens solid, smells
the way an invisible stone
can be trusted
lets you lower your head
against this darkness
falling out your skin
as silence and the nights to come.
*
And the sun by a single stroke
broken into rain and forgetfulness
—you lift a child’s bat
that still has heat to it, a ball
overgrown and against this mangy glove
stumbles headlong as further on
—this attic needs more room
the bases are full though you try
to remember the route stretching out
to dry the air Vaughn will need again
but not just now—what you store
is drought, drought under drought
—your brain half rock, half
drilled for this dust all these years
falling from thirst and leaving go
—tell me, who would come here
except to climb forever, not sure
why your steps won’t go away
as if it takes all that time
to be remembered
and softly by its name.
*
As if they once had teeth, your hands
nibble on apples half mud, half worms
—you eat only what falls to the ground
rotted, serene, made dark
by the welcoming slope into evening
—you pick the way every stone
points where to rest, has this urge
to be useful, calms your arms
still attached to the same mouth
and milky breath, holding on
—you share these twins with the sun
stretching out on your forehead
shining in its darkness from the start
and in your arms the word
for offering, for stillness, pieces.
BIO
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.