by Simon Perchik

*

I lift to make it remember, shake
and this thick wooden beam
holding on tighter, juts from the pile
as if it hears a great wind
this time without the weight
that never stops, to the end.

Snow must be something new for it
– the pain working its way through my wrist
my back – once on my shoulders
I hear rejoicing, voices in love
and the son seated around my neck
must have known he was taller
for awhile – this snow

will never stop –even in summer
these stones are hurled from sometimes so far
they’re tired by the time I find them
pulling one from the air
just by holding out my arms
by folding them, bending back
half-eaten nails: death

must have been sudden – all these boards
though the stench too
has been forgotten here – this beam
smelling from where his tiny legs
tighter and tighter till my lungs
take on a gallop, would jump
touch down: a snowfall
the dead will mistake for a roadway
wide enough for everyone at once
for the singing higher and higher.

*

The laces are new –they were cut
so a knot would hold my hand
and these shoes lead you across treetops

– this time you are flying, the shine
softer than where your shoes
wobbled, plunged, weightless

– I’m filling the air with knots
as if something you touched here
fell apart, knocking down walls

and sunlight – hold up your shoes
colder than masks – you become stronger
on fire again, flying

into the sun, close to my cheeks
– it’s simple. I wear your shoes
to visit you

or when their shine almost circles
you visit me
begin that climb the dead

can never forget and what’s still above
what’s enormous. This time
you are flying across the silence

from that first death on Earth
– it must have been a bird. Even now
pointing out the trees

my arms lift you into the wind
– easy and the crowd below
holds fast, knows it can be done

are following on foot, unafraid
their faces ridged, fixed: the dead
without a sound gaining height and belong.

*

Sniffing its footprints, this pebble
wants to start over – you lift it
and the sky too grows larger
heavier – you’re in the way.

It’s tearing apart some vague scent
all stone once had – you can make out
its tears, its warm pulse
its tongue stirs, reaching for words

for its throat and your blood
lines up closest to the surface
– all those years, this little stone
must think there’s still time

that your bones too will learn to stare
to heal, sledged from their mountainside
scattered and streams closer and closer
taking so long to empty.

• Welcome to Entasis.