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.
A-Minor 