Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org

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
is carving out more shoreline – by itself
bathing this homesick stone

till its shadow softens, overflows
with summer nights and bird cries
nesting on rooftops, still alone

calling for its slow turn to climb back
into mountainside, be washed
wingtip to wingtip with a small mouth.


*

Goes first though once airborne
your reflection changes shape
corrects for turbulence, backs off

breaking up between the mirror
and the faucet kept open
for headwinds lifting the water

to fit with what’s to come
– you will never be generous again
– one hand stays wet, the other

held up to stop its likeness
before it rises to the surface
as stone longing to face you

fly into your mouth, breathe for her
say to her the word after word
she will recognise as her name

spreading out for a sea, wings
to put your hands into
and the broken teeth trying to hold on.

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

Readers are asked to send a note of any misprints or mistakes that they spot in this poem to support@standmagazine.org
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