*
He has this rule, No tools
and for the same reason
I take his beat-up ladder
--he knows it won't be used
that inside a week I'm back
better than ever with thanks
and carried on my shoulder.
Each Spring's the same
--I bring the 6-pack, wait
for the You shouldn't have
while he opens 2, tells me
how the shed needs a lock
and I admit to nothing
though the dust rag
is there in my hand
--he's used to this, Buy one
you cheapskate, wants to hear
how it's not the same, the ladder
has to be glommed and a neighbor
who goes along, explains again
how expensive a strong lock is
then snaps back the lid
as if the loving tab would light
the world and everyone who ever lived
seen again, holding on
with no one passing the other
--we have it settled, the ladder
is his, stays dingy, leans
inside the shed the way a dead child
still calls to its mother
and once each year I carry off
these powerful wishes rung by rung
return their distant heights and wings.
*
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.
*
Each night my mouth, my cough, my sweat
reeks the way embalmers will rinse out
then close my eyes --it's impossible
to sleep without that same bath
the dead are asked to drink, are saved
for later --in the morning
slowly at first, the bed's intact
its sheet the same white linen
and the jacket worn all night
buttoned as if I would feel the wind
will be taken there again
--all day, every day and my tongue
expects the bitter after-taste, half
the retrieving odor that calls forever
half these fleece-lined boots
I can't take off.
I tell the druggist anything
but the landlord knows I live alone
and talks about the future
while I mix one more tablespoon
in shallow water, caressing waves
I can't see, that know their way
in the dark, in the whirlpool
where I sniff for rust
and the medicinal scent I hoped
could shake loose these laces
even these gloves.
*
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 tweezers
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.
*
Even the perigee tides must have begun
as something simple --who knows
but looking back you laughed too easily
the timing was off, took forever
--a displacement so complex as emptiness
or moonlight or a sea finally
growing in sand, in this photograph
already yellow and the pony was taught
to face the sun --you are holding up
the reins, still learning to breathe
not sure what air is, where it goes
except its rapture, your smile
still exploding, its shadow torn off
lying in the dirt behind you
--your mouth opened wider than
the bringing in the light and laughter
alone blows up the world, the sea
broken in pieces to appear in the picture
made holy the way the moon
is still looking for the Earth
--nothing complicated, in time
even the sky becomes fertile, will need
more and more curvature, less light
from your hands, your lips, your laugh
leading the sea left to right
and in the East the children.
*
I pet this bear the way stars
have the same sharp little teeth
and snapping --stillness helps
knows the angles, the ropes, claps
because a grandfather's sour breath
will stuff your heart to its fingertips
to last and last forever --extravagance
helps me pack the snowballing story
so your name stays in the page
read over and over
because what else is there.
You hear how nothing ends
not the waves still sweet
hiding in faraway secret coves
--not the sky who once upon a time
fell in love with a huge, flowering
blackbird --not the broken wings
not the sea who would heal
in a deserted dockyard --you hear
night after night naming you Orion
and your arms around those stars
that are within striking distance
--page after page the mountain ranges
where listening and breathing
are the same, are stars who grow
again and again as trees
who rear up on their hind feet
to sniff for you, for something plausible
about the future, about a great bow
pulled back as if this soft book
could shield the sleepless bear
the honey and cool forest.
*
And the sun directly in front
thinks its safe, pleased
with my poisonous shadow
tangled among the dry weeds
though it's never sure
all the time looking behind
as if it too has a dark flash
is saving it for evenings
for those heavy roots and rivers
along some wailing slow descent
and burial at sea
--I wait till noon when the sun
is softest, loose, still enough left
to cover this peach pit with one hand
with its tiny shadow that stings
then devours the cornered light
and feeds on helpless rocks
where nothing moves --you expect me
--why else all night
do I count its tremors till the Earth
breaks in half and it too
have always a withered side
that grieves for the one behind it
and the morning --you can hear the hole
where this shovel moves closer
though the light with a single drop
will fall over you and you drown
in stone and loneliness
and the shadow that tries to carry you
past the sun, past my mouth and kisses.
*
Not until the frost shows up
and yet the lawn
must think that ice will wait
while I let the hose run loose
among the lame and the young
--I spray this herd
the way each maple sweetens the grass
to heal their wounds
tasting from flour and bread
and my breath kept warm
though the pipe will freeze
clawed open :the thaw
all beasts sense and the cellar
floods --me on my knees
cupping both hands in some footpath
that circles the Earth, is ready
to blossom into birds
and this yard kept scented
as if there was no rush
the cold means nothing
and you pin back your hair.
It's easy to forget in Spring
why the tap should be drained
and the cold air allowed to climb
--you need a hat, all year
the tight fit that covers your ears
with memory, with darkness and flames
--you still don't see it coming
though you learned --so much heat
so much solder, drop by drop
as if the rain would harden
from mountainsides and cooling
and you pull your arms apart
let the waters through
in panic, on fire --I do it every Fall
when the dead need it most
and the extra water
so even this tree knows
where to return, where I am waiting
and have forgotten how.
*
These iron faucets, one
for water from the South, its twin
icy streams and every morning
I turn two valves
the way each child is born
from riverbeds and the sink
filling with skies, with open seas
where the sun looks at its reflection
--the light half wind
half bathing the Earth
--every morning a few drops
on my forehead, just enough sunlight
to remind us all how death
when this bowl drains
as if a great wave, beginning at sunrise
continent over continent --you see it
in stands when the crowds
wait for the crest to be carried
together, washing the water
with water not yet whirlpools and absences
--I hold these two tools
not sure what it is I'm making
or loosening or stone
from stones that weep
even in wells, were brought to this basin
and like a sudden flower
points where the sun and my hand too
wants to go home.
He has this rule, No tools
and for the same reason
I take his beat-up ladder
--he knows it won't be used
that inside a week I'm back
better than ever with thanks
and carried on my shoulder.
Each Spring's the same
--I bring the 6-pack, wait
for the You shouldn't have
while he opens 2, tells me
how the shed needs a lock
and I admit to nothing
though the dust rag
is there in my hand
--he's used to this, Buy one
you cheapskate, wants to hear
how it's not the same, the ladder
has to be glommed and a neighbor
who goes along, explains again
how expensive a strong lock is
then snaps back the lid
as if the loving tab would light
the world and everyone who ever lived
seen again, holding on
with no one passing the other
--we have it settled, the ladder
is his, stays dingy, leans
inside the shed the way a dead child
still calls to its mother
and once each year I carry off
these powerful wishes rung by rung
return their distant heights and wings.
*
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.
*
Each night my mouth, my cough, my sweat
reeks the way embalmers will rinse out
then close my eyes --it's impossible
to sleep without that same bath
the dead are asked to drink, are saved
for later --in the morning
slowly at first, the bed's intact
its sheet the same white linen
and the jacket worn all night
buttoned as if I would feel the wind
will be taken there again
--all day, every day and my tongue
expects the bitter after-taste, half
the retrieving odor that calls forever
half these fleece-lined boots
I can't take off.
I tell the druggist anything
but the landlord knows I live alone
and talks about the future
while I mix one more tablespoon
in shallow water, caressing waves
I can't see, that know their way
in the dark, in the whirlpool
where I sniff for rust
and the medicinal scent I hoped
could shake loose these laces
even these gloves.
*
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 tweezers
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.
*
Even the perigee tides must have begun
as something simple --who knows
but looking back you laughed too easily
the timing was off, took forever
--a displacement so complex as emptiness
or moonlight or a sea finally
growing in sand, in this photograph
already yellow and the pony was taught
to face the sun --you are holding up
the reins, still learning to breathe
not sure what air is, where it goes
except its rapture, your smile
still exploding, its shadow torn off
lying in the dirt behind you
--your mouth opened wider than
the bringing in the light and laughter
alone blows up the world, the sea
broken in pieces to appear in the picture
made holy the way the moon
is still looking for the Earth
--nothing complicated, in time
even the sky becomes fertile, will need
more and more curvature, less light
from your hands, your lips, your laugh
leading the sea left to right
and in the East the children.
*
I pet this bear the way stars
have the same sharp little teeth
and snapping --stillness helps
knows the angles, the ropes, claps
because a grandfather's sour breath
will stuff your heart to its fingertips
to last and last forever --extravagance
helps me pack the snowballing story
so your name stays in the page
read over and over
because what else is there.
You hear how nothing ends
not the waves still sweet
hiding in faraway secret coves
--not the sky who once upon a time
fell in love with a huge, flowering
blackbird --not the broken wings
not the sea who would heal
in a deserted dockyard --you hear
night after night naming you Orion
and your arms around those stars
that are within striking distance
--page after page the mountain ranges
where listening and breathing
are the same, are stars who grow
again and again as trees
who rear up on their hind feet
to sniff for you, for something plausible
about the future, about a great bow
pulled back as if this soft book
could shield the sleepless bear
the honey and cool forest.
*
And the sun directly in front
thinks its safe, pleased
with my poisonous shadow
tangled among the dry weeds
though it's never sure
all the time looking behind
as if it too has a dark flash
is saving it for evenings
for those heavy roots and rivers
along some wailing slow descent
and burial at sea
--I wait till noon when the sun
is softest, loose, still enough left
to cover this peach pit with one hand
with its tiny shadow that stings
then devours the cornered light
and feeds on helpless rocks
where nothing moves --you expect me
--why else all night
do I count its tremors till the Earth
breaks in half and it too
have always a withered side
that grieves for the one behind it
and the morning --you can hear the hole
where this shovel moves closer
though the light with a single drop
will fall over you and you drown
in stone and loneliness
and the shadow that tries to carry you
past the sun, past my mouth and kisses.
*
Not until the frost shows up
and yet the lawn
must think that ice will wait
while I let the hose run loose
among the lame and the young
--I spray this herd
the way each maple sweetens the grass
to heal their wounds
tasting from flour and bread
and my breath kept warm
though the pipe will freeze
clawed open :the thaw
all beasts sense and the cellar
floods --me on my knees
cupping both hands in some footpath
that circles the Earth, is ready
to blossom into birds
and this yard kept scented
as if there was no rush
the cold means nothing
and you pin back your hair.
It's easy to forget in Spring
why the tap should be drained
and the cold air allowed to climb
--you need a hat, all year
the tight fit that covers your ears
with memory, with darkness and flames
--you still don't see it coming
though you learned --so much heat
so much solder, drop by drop
as if the rain would harden
from mountainsides and cooling
and you pull your arms apart
let the waters through
in panic, on fire --I do it every Fall
when the dead need it most
and the extra water
so even this tree knows
where to return, where I am waiting
and have forgotten how.
*
These iron faucets, one
for water from the South, its twin
icy streams and every morning
I turn two valves
the way each child is born
from riverbeds and the sink
filling with skies, with open seas
where the sun looks at its reflection
--the light half wind
half bathing the Earth
--every morning a few drops
on my forehead, just enough sunlight
to remind us all how death
when this bowl drains
as if a great wave, beginning at sunrise
continent over continent --you see it
in stands when the crowds
wait for the crest to be carried
together, washing the water
with water not yet whirlpools and absences
--I hold these two tools
not sure what it is I'm making
or loosening or stone
from stones that weep
even in wells, were brought to this basin
and like a sudden flower
points where the sun and my hand too
wants to go home.
Simon Perchik
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose
poems have appeared in Partisan
Review, The New Yorker, and
elsewhere. Rafts (Parsifal Editions) is
his most recent collection. For more
information, including his essay “Magic,
Illusion and Other Realities” and a
complete bibliography,
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |