a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Simon Perchik
To listen to you work this bowl
and each evening crouch
with your lips in all directions

wrapped around a warming spoon
near, nearer to the side she slept on
filled with sharp corners

and lower your forehead, let the soup
cool –you swallow a bed, are fed
on windswept fires, the sound

that has become the mouth
you’re drowning in –arm over arm
making room for her and lower.

*

You lick and each finger straightens
though it’s this seedy monument
that’s weakening, leaning down

to hear where the wind is coming from
is carving out more shoreline –by itself
bathing this homesick stone

till its shadow softens, overflows
with summer nights and bird cries
nesting on rooftops, still alone

calling for its slow turn to climb back
into mountainside, be washed
wingtip to wingtip with a small mouth.



Simon Perchik’s poetry has also appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.


 

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