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It’s a meal, your elbows
crawling the way this soap
is shaped by salt
though she still believes
the water stays young
by letting you touch it
washing her shoulders
with undersea prairies
as if an arm so old
could still reach out
make room in her breasts
for nourishment
and already your fingers
smell from saliva
and empty riverbeds
kept wet for these wrinkles
taking away her cheeks
her legs and agony.
*
A simple vest though you suspect
there’s a chair nearby, its back
haunted by sleeves and lifeless
–you don’t touch the wounds
undress the way rain
gives up its life for a place
the dirt might want
now that nothing else is there
except the mud-caked darkness
clinging to you and on the sly
tucks in your arms
lets them circle down –on all sides
stays empty for so many dead
spread out to dry a leather jacket
you were once in love with.
*
By the handful, in tenderness
yet your shadow erupts
and by nightfall holds on
one shoulder then the other
spun as if this dirt would find
the wind it came here for
circle up and cover this place
with your finger touching
the grave skies grow into
and never let go –a parting gesture
collecting darkness with another
helps you leave the way the dead
fill their arms with the Earth
carried around as morning and higher
in stones they know by heart.
copyright 2019
Simon
Perchik |
