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POETRY
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By Simon Perchik
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The Montréal Review, September 2011
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What more proof do you need! jagged
left behind --a beautiful stone
torn to pieces and near its heart
a tiny rock half drift, half moonlight
that blossomed to become the opposite shore
--all these years in the open
though every wave still smells from stone
the way this sea from its start
was never sure, even now a doubt
splashing as your blood or throat
or better yet next time at breakfast
reach out with just your breath
and god-like touch the boiling tea
hold up the evidence, the first wave
and the emptiness it counted on.
*
Runners train by it, both my fists
and at the finish line
snap open the way each new moon
still unbeaten uses this flourish
to poke inside these stones
--you can't hide much longer
and years mean nothing now
dropping back from exhaustion
dragging the dirt behind
--wherever you are I can find you
handful by handful broken apart
for just two fingers calling out
and in front the unyielding ribbon
suddenly dark I can snatch
the breath letting me through.
*
Battered though its wings
disappear under your eyelids
and more smoke --this lever
lost its touch, wants out :rusts
the way this wall is kept in place
pulled down on all sides
by old wiring and wrong turns
--always one slice that can't be saved
though you wear gloves
yank the smoldering cord
so that still warm jacket
is torn open, lets the sun fall
as rain and later --this toaster
reeks from your head thrown back
to see if both eyes move
and the other slice the North Sea
pressing against your hand
for a little more time.
*
Though the sky comes to rest alongside
you can't tell just by a street sign
who the sidewalk is for--it does no good
looking around as if anyone wanted it
always raining --what you see now
is its descent held in your arms
as more rain and coming back with nothing
--she's not here, not there
--this walking you do, the way a grindstone
keeps wet and slippery
whose turns are no longer possible
--at least walk with an umbrella
that is not a flower --there's not enough
not in all the world enough flowers
that can walk by holding on to your hand
and the grave that you call to
is it what this rain does, too weak to stand
falling off as still more rain
--at least wear shoes! hide something
so when you let go a still dry stone
it will surprise her and more emptiness.
*
Under this fountain, half graveyard
half shoreline where her name
washes up the way each mourner
comes by sea, drops anchor
and the small stone holding fast
as if spray makes the difference
--you come here to crouch
though there is nothing to begin
except waves :night after night
eaten away by footfalls --what's left
is the climbing splash
millwheels will wring from riverbeds
--with just one stone you let go
and the sky sinks to the bottom
that already left for here.
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Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay "Magic, Illusion and Other Realities" and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.
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