Poetry by Simon Perchik

To remind these dead -this rock
was once their only word
though now no one can hear it

-they too have forgotten
where nothing had a name
let the place do all the talking

-it was a time for breaking in
and breaking out -the weakest breath
learned to tremble from the weight

piece by piece deep inside
the bone that is your throat
-this endless sound worn smooth

knows nothing about the others
was left here to harden, try again,
higher, tastes from kisses and edges.


This comb stretching out
is dragged across your brain
the way a butterfly migrates

-the same side to side
fixed in its wings as a place
it has never been before

though under the mirror a sea
follows you from the beginning
with weeks at a time, surfaces

for the waves it left behind
-by the thousands, impaled
on some vague wind just now

flickering on your forehead
as the hair that’s kept in water
for directions and a leaving.


Don’t you believe it! to be continued
distracts from the front page
brushing against some hearse

wants more time -this newspaper
is opened then wider as if the rattle
could be heard though you sleep

a lot, sitting in a chair half wood
half the way a bell will practice
till its stance feels right

though you are the only one
listening in some great hall, your arms
folded as if they were not yet lost.


About Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere. For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.