Untitled

by Simon Perchik

  

You draw the map on her dress
shade in each afternoon
with a gentle stroking –here

the storm will be, the chalk
is already falling back
breaking apart over the fixed point

where the Earth was lowered
the way all graves are calmed
and though the dress is black

you hold it up as a gesture
guiding her with a night
that now weighs nothing

will circle over and over as the sleeve
no longer whitened by moonlight
taking so long to finish, become the path

helping you stay on your feet
once there’s no chalk left
no sparks and the heaviness.

  

  

  

Simon Perchik‘s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: