This poem is taken from Stand 225, 18(1) March - May 2020.

Simon Perchik Three Poems
*

To listen you work this bowl
and each evening crouch
with your lips in all directions

wrapped around a warming spoon
near, nearer to the side she slept on
filled with sharp corners

and lower your forehead, let the soup
cool – you swallow a bed, are fed
on windswept fires, the sound

that has become the mouth
you’re drowning in – arm over arm
making room for her and lower.


*

You lick and each finger straightens
though it’s this seedy monument
that’s weakening, leaning down

to hear where the wind is coming from
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