hpn

Home Planet News Online
                                                               The Literary Review
                                                                          Issue 8

Page 40

                                                                                                                                                                                       Swipe left        Swipe down

                     *

Before its first grave this hillside
was already showing signs
let its slope escape as darkness

mistake every embrace for dirt
though one arm more than the other
is always heavier, still circles down

bringing you closer the way rain
knows winter will come with snow
that was here before, bring you weights

till nothing moves, not the shadows
not the sun coming here to learn
about the cold, hear the evenings.

SIMON PERCHIK__

____________________

                     *

And though the Earth lets you dig
it's your tears that heat the ground
already growing stars

once the darkness covers it
to lure these dead here
with stones scented with shorelines

returned not as rain but grass
just as it was, closing in from all sides
the way this shovel is warmed

by your hands kept wet, pulled
closer ̶ you cling to this dirt
as if it once was an afternoon

knows only the slow descent
hand over hand into stone
that no longer opens to hear the bleeding.

  SIMON PERCHIK__

                     *

Though you can't tell them apart
your tears came back, marked the ground
the way leaves go unnamed to their death

as the need to follow one another
one breath at a time, face up
and after that the rain and warmer

̶ you weep with your collar open
make room for another grave
near a sea each night wider, further

no longer heard the way now and then
comes by to close the Earth
with buttons and sleeves and tighter.

SIMON PERCHIK__

_________________

© Minerva González-Suvidad: burbujas
             © Minerva González-Suvidad: burbujas






                     *

You open this jar the way each raindrop
breaks apart mid-air, stops telling time
when struck by another, head to head

as streams ̶ your hands stay wet
let you gather the hours that are not
the bottom stones mourners use

for water though this lid is still circling
where you listen for those nights
on the way back as the puddles

water makes when trying to breathe
into a place on its own and empty handed
the glass shatters all at once.

  SIMON PERCHIK__



__________

                     *

Leaning against the wall
it becomes a death bed
the way a name on paper

flattens out to take hold
for which there is no word
only a room where no one noticed

you didn't ask for help
so close to the corners
with the light still on.

SIMON PERCHIK__