Issue > Poetry

Jeffrey Perkins

Jeffrey Perkins received his M.F.A. in poetry from Bennington College and currently teaches poetry to adults in Brookline, Massachusetts. His poems have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Southampton Review, Rhino, and Tuesday: An Art Project, among other journals.

In The Last Hours Of The Fix

when the alarm is to call
just before the purr of water
rolls to boil, in the moment
you can still make out the sun
on the plane of trees, when
I almost forget what it was
to cross the Golden Gate Bridge
in that mini-van on our way
to Point Reyes, I catch myself.
Time had its way. When cellos
begin I'm afraid you might be
in Saskatchewan, where I have
no intention of ever arriving.

In The Next Gallery

I say, let's plant a farm—let rows of corn,
cukes, tomatoes, and winter squash weave

the concrete floor. Raise soil into beds
with wood walls. Crack the ceiling until rain

finds a way in. Open blue sky here
in the center of the sheetrocked cathedral.

We can invite the city on embossed invitations.
Tents in the new wing for whomever stays

the night. In the late hours you and I can escape
to the sea compartment and taste dark salt.

So many lovers we won't meet. Horses left
unrode. Language tapes boxed in the basement.

It's always in other rooms. Your collarbone
under my hand. My air inside your lungs.