Apr/May 2016 Poetry


by Simon Perchik

Image courtesy of the British Library Photostream


With her name in your mouth
more than a word, a morning
and everywhere on Earth

at the same time, in daylight
though once every year
you eat an apple in silence

as if a whisper
could pull the stars down
closer and closer to one another

and from your mouth a second sun
that has no shadow yet
would warm your lips holding on

as mountainside and one last look
at her eyes that tell you nothing
—this apple you drag nearer

is also a word, has your voice
your useless jaws, your darkness
next to her breasts and around them.


Previous Piece Next Piece