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*
I can mimic this fork, its bruises
bluish-red:my tongue
slips through the boxcar slats
–sticky flies smell my breath
grazing for the last time
–my teeth squeak :pulleys
crowding the bent trapeze
the carcasses and railroad siding
–you hear my teeth sway as every tong
leaves a dark spot on the tablecloth
will camouflage my voice
wobbling in this pan
–the cellophane wailing
as linen still unwraps and the lamb
rebuilt, knee here, leg– a jig-saw crucible
heated to fit again into its mother
the trickling dandelions, curdled sleep
and a small white paper bag
still filled with a child's breath
held tight for the thud torn open
at the top, bleeds. copies this fork
my throat and the table. |
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Simon
Perchik |
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Simon Perchik is an
attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The
New Yorker, and elsewhere. Readers interested in learning
more about him are invited to read Magic, Illusion and Other
Realities
here
which lists a complete bibliography. |
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*
Nothing enters painlessly, the Earth
chucks up our hubcaps, puddles, rust
as mothers long ago learned
–we are taught to kiss
with our mouth closed, to hear
their dark, bent
and the creak we cannot see
unrolls the Earth
the crushed lullabies, mufflers
and evenings
–I'm hauling this sun
back into the ground
into an ocean never heard before
--carting a light that wouldn't wait
whose first breath came from this dark
and the last, half asleep, again
carried down in my arms.
*
Some fly holding up the map
as if its longitudes, if parallels
could crawl –my screen door
marked by moonlit leaves
flashing on course, the fly
won't let me out –a dippy fly
windswept, wearing my jacket
the boots, the fleece-lined sun
traced across one wire
till another crosses it :a plumage
blacker than a net drying on the sand
–the screen door sags, the fly
too heavy, stalks the grid
for runways, for skies
and still this door won't open.
Do you know how a parachute
strapped tight as if the heart
could be hugged once your knees
leave the rim and your breath
opens –this fly
tracks where it will crash
sees in my palm the saucer
and under its water still warm
the black sheet --this fly
and even in water the frantic drone
slipping on wires where nothing
stays in place or belongs.
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