a poetry e-zine










Simon Perchik
You lean against her thigh
as if this gravestone
no longer smells from grass

longs for a dry riverbed
not sure you can undress her
even in the dark

though its lettering is stranded
sheltered and your embrace
still breathing in her name

her just-another-word-for-loving-you
that lets you sweat
without moving your lips

still covered by an overnight longing
pulling them apart then emptied
to remember your only hope.

These shelves are used to it, pruned
the way stress will age the branches first
–you can hear the tree struggling

bend though each board is already empty
and there’s no pillow or water
you can force under to grow as wood

not yet smoke or dust scrambling up
as if all these horizons would collapse
and the charred rag opens over you

making room for distances and moving closer
–what you stack is absences, her arms
worth keeping, her mouth even in traces.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Osiris, 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.

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