Simon Perchik

 

 

*

This door slams easily now
though in the dark
it remembers more

reaches around and the rain
returned to you as lips
pressed together

weighs almost nothing
keeps both these hinges
from drying the way a deathwatch

night after night anchors
against the splash
and makes from your hand

a mask to ward off the Earth
tightening around your cheeks
two shadows, two mouths.

 

 

*

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.