UNTITLED

This woman with a dead conch
answering, whispers
the sea is still suffering

and the stars, though each raindrop
has some white left over.
In winter it's unbearable

—she bites! her hands hollowed out
fill with waves still dragging the sea
flapping great oars—she's kneeling now.

The shell's too heavy, filled
with that light taken away
allowed to return

only on snowflakes flattened by thirst
and loneliness—she drinks this light
from which the sea is made, salted

by each death and her eyes
floating away. And deepening.

s i m o n   p e r c h i k
e a s t   h a m p t o n ,   n e w   y o r k

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