Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Twenty-five Spring 2011 |
* Simon Perchik This gravestone :each sail still leans on course flops and wheels before it topples into ice –the heat from my hand flows over you –you hear only the streams still cold from melting snow and knives. This granite as lovers will cut against the widest pine, your initials grew longer, the sky everywhere has withered and this ice block flowing past my lips as a beast will gnaw the salt from stones. Your name too is cold, is now alone. The heat from my hand can kill and each snowflake in tears –nothing’s left but tears and lettering. I lick your gravestone for tears that fit my mouth for those words we giggled to each other for the small stone that will slip loose fall, seal as if the sun too was wished by one stone on another on every grave till the last like the sound when your back broke –one too many bones, or dust or chips from out the heart –there’s never enough! everywhere pieces, pebbles :blizzards brought back to fill the dead but you hear only the departing floes the washing, each time outloud and the sun heated by my emptiness –I have no more, this last pebble will fall to others and the sea rise from my hand, each snowflake rises and the flickering light you hear. |
About Simon Perchik |