by Simon Perchik
Under your tongue these stones
the dead leave empty
–what you warm
basks next to words
no longer side to side
sung the way evenings
still turn back
–it’s an old love song
buried then buried again
needs more air than the others
–you breathe for two
though there’s no breeze
only a birthmark taking hold
the way a single song
began as a few stones
and a fresh start –you inhale
as if this thirst needs you
wants mountains, backhoes, a mouth.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, including free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities” please visit his website at http://www.simonperchik.com.
A-Minor 