Simon Perchik
*
A simple bow :my arms
as ribbon will point to what's inside
hammering --grease-caked rope
knotted for my highwire act
wrapped around a raft
splintering, rocks everywhere.
I hang on, low clouds, thunder
the sunset falling off the Earth, feathers
left and right :not one star
sinks to the bottom --my arms
outcasts, shredded :the two sails
Noah forgot --I'm kept from the shore
to dig only in backyards
where the wells hide
as Jews were buried, like water
used to pipes and sledges and creaking
clinging to water
their only home in this world
--I hang on as if my heart too
a well, tainted
by a uniform, by banners and boots
waving, oiling even the ditches
even the children
--who drinks this water!
I only want to find them
to drain the ditch again
let out the smoke --to rope my arms
around and around as a sail
sees a raft breathe again
--a water still burning the tiny socks
the shoes.
I hang on
till my feet are sore
--I make a simple fist :a knot
for the rope lowered into the dirt :a stake
to measure my own heart
as if I were packing an empty glass
were leaving a country for good, wandering
again with water so heavy it bends.
*
I never saw Death so neat, its apron
careful not to brush the lettering :a name
still damp as if the mourners
could hide anything from stone
--and tall! boasting! its apron
took forever to fall and naked again
almost the same first cry every mother hears
--it was only the string. Death
full length, exalted on a coffin :a pedestal
from the so young branches
as if this Spring another leaf
reaches into the rabbi's voice
for a diploma --the crowd begins to couple
almost rehearsed --I wait
but the stone won't read to anyone --a mother
turning back as if the crib--.
It's so dark.
The cemetery has a name too, a wooden sign
they paint each Fall. You have to look up
like the sign at Macy's. It's easier
if you come alone, you know why you come
and you point where a railing should be
where the grass is littered, the bushes
need watering and where are the workers
who should be caring for this place.
I never saw Death so empty, its letters
don't spell anything
except what was taken away
hungry from some warm mountainside :a mother
touching the stone, leaning
cushions her arm floating away, the letters
loose --Death
never so orderly again, never so steep
*
Under this sink a tree
needs tightening, both wrenches
and leaf by leaf another leak
more sweat, more compost
weakens their hold, erases
the day before till they weep
on my hands, on these tools
squeezing even their hearts dry
--it's not by accident
the trap was hid
and under this drain what's caught
let go the way every Fall
still tightens and I work my head in
--fixing leaks is a job
for someone no longer in love
who knows the breaking point
can work the connectors, the unions
the fittings, whose hands
now weigh almost nothing, who can
without all over again
just turn, turn and turn
till the tears suddenly stop breathing.
Copyright 2004 by Simon Perchik
Contributor's Note
