Simon Perchik
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.
*
Though her finger can't reach
she's telling you be quiet
as if there's a word for it
shaped by a breath from where
the light on her face was lowered
—shadows know this, let you
lie there, go over the details
—from the start, her breasts
wanting so much to make a sound
cover the dirt with your mouth
pressing against her, begin
as silence, then nothing.
*
Side by side as if the moon
carries off those buttons
close together and your coat
dyed black to make it heavier
—you let it fall, lay there
—yes, you were in love
sang to birds, to burials
though it's the moon
coming back and the darkness
it needs to close the ground
that goes on alone
yes, you couldn't move.