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Simon
Perchik
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Four in the morning and the dog
wants to talk about her dream
afraid to stop in the middle
--the barking smells from salt
wants to be brushed and the sky
made ready, shown to someone
before morning arrives --I calm her fur
to lay down the way an echo
is trained to retrieve, waving
to something I can't see. It's no use.
I need a glass, a spoon
but the tea no matter how near
darkens with each goodbye --I need
to set the dog adrift :an island
on all sides left facing a great sea
warning me where sleep is treacherous
and the mist, louder and louder
wanting to come home.
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Again a lull across my cheek
another line that can't be crossed
--each side the wound
mourners in tight hats
trek single file, invisible
--with one precise somersault
the surgeon lifts from my face
where once your kiss growing monstrous
was half around the sun --one cheek
asleep behind some sheet
created from the light
from singing in a circle.
You hear the blade
longing to reach my lips
bend from holding on --end over end
the way a juggler works the high wire
reaches out for wings
that can't stop spinning.
You would think this hospital staff
and even the costumes
come from Ringling Brothers
from that over and over dream
where the sun now larger than ever
is lowered with you
with the marching songs, the elephant
balanced on a balloon, hind legs midair
reaching out, trying to cross over
from that ground that never lets go
the way an acrobat still practices
for that flight and the sun
each night deeper, deeper --even you
hear some nurse tighten the wide strap
--with a flourish, testing for safety
and the sky leap off
to the side, used to it.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems
have appeared in Partisan Review, The New
Yorker and elsewhere. Readers interested in
more are invited to read his essay Magic,
Illusion and Other Realities at
www.geocities.com/simonthepoet which has a
complete bibliography.
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