Though they give nothing back
they’re weak and in the bargain
both eyes are overgrown
with branches, with hillsides
calling out from the dirt
that no longer knows the difference
–what they can still point to
you drink as thighs and breasts
and rainwater stroking the Earth
shaking it, almost a mouth
almost a sun, a smell
burning between, half roots
half far away, half squint
and your heart too is emptying
struggling, moist, around you.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ankle deep and these stars
expect you to come by
stomp out their flames
the way each sky
keeps its place in line
–even before there was rain
you needed streams
and slowly through your legs
the heart you have left
lets go these footsteps
shining in water
as if here is the fire
still beating as nights
as hair and lips
and overflowing.
Simon Perchik’s poetry has also appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere. Visit him at www.simonperchik.com.
Chantarelle's Notebook 