As if the pump for the well

is carving her shoulders out

and the invisible stone


you will hold when it dries

broken up among the ruins

though some rocks


still squeeze one hand

too tight and the faucet

cover you with a place


that can not rest

–what you grip will be this cup

left over from the first death


no longer noon but a cramp

for which there is no potion

only her lips falling from the sky


almost empty, worn down

clings to the ground

as minutes, hours, evenings


–for years one hand

closing over the other

already a shadow


half grass, half thirst

half some vague hovering

inside your throat


–mouthful by mouthful only cold water

at last in the open

pulled up and still falling.


~ Simon Perchik


Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.  More information, inclusing free e-books, his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities”, and a complete bibliography, can be found at his website.


Featured artwork by Aiez Mirza.