by Simon Perchik
You cough on a pillow now, use the height
and snow covered mountainside spreading out
falling off the Earth
— you breathe as if your headstone
had feathers, wings and on the down stroke
would lift off without you the way all stone
is covered with smaller stones
with whispers and your lips pressed close
—you hear the ground drinking water
to keep your throat open, the dirt
breaking into bits, into snow
and stones every child learns to throw.
About the Author:
"Process is all for Perchik, who has turned himself into almost pure imagination, purer than mere existence, to help us reclaim our buried selves."
--Edward Butscher
Simon Perchik's poetry has been published in several magazines which include The Nation, Partisan Review, Poetry and The New Yorker. His latest book, a collection of poetry called, Letters To The Dead, can be obtained through St. Andrews Press in Laurinburg, North Carolina.