A poem by Simon Perchik

These waves still surface, not sure
it’s her lips that open and close, kept moist
though you can’t hear her voice

scented with rotting wood, weeds
and bottom sand –-you row this boat
left, right, swinging your arms

half moonlight, half almost makes out
the words rising from empty shells
and the dress you first saw her in

–you need more arms, clear summer nights
from that inch by inch love song
heavier than these overgrown paths

no longer listening for her forehead
that once anchored the Earth
and water too knows what it has

reeling from a gentle stroke, another
another, facing the sky
it leaves behind, caressing her hair

her breasts, her shimmering –-some nights
you can hear her, one by one
–some nights it’s colder, colder.

 

About the Author:
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.