Untitled [poem] by Simon Perchik

These gravestones are shaped the way every avalanche
wants to enter the Earth—first as a single doorstep
then the rush though the rocks you listen for

are already moons helping you find the door
for holding on while the light under you
becomes another shadow made from wood

lays down as a room that cannot change its mind
is filled with cracked lips, the cold and end over end
the strong corners, the kisses that made it here.

 

Image of 1930s Switchboard Operator

[Refer: This poem put the editors in mind of Dustin Beall Smith’s essay “Grace.”]

Image by liz west

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, 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 www.simonperchik.com.