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Simon Perchik

Simon Perchik

Photo by Lucan Husac.

You mourn the way this sand
has no strength, keeps warm
between one day and another

and your closed hands
that need the place
left by a small stone

dropping slowly in water
though what rests here
is the emptiness already mist

and nothing starts again
-you dig as if this beach
blossoms once your fingers

open and these dead
lose their way among the flowers
that no longer come home

-you kneel easily now
pulled down by your shadow
following head first as rain

heavier and heavier
tracing a face with just your lips
and worn out nod.

You have this kinship, the limp
balances you and the Earth
already blossoming

with nothing under it
though you lift one foot
closer to the other

hillside after hillside
the way mud settles and clots
--you're used to losing, come

so this cane can grab your hand
almost in time and what's left
above the ground, knows

you're drowning, in rain
stops and starts, in dirt
and tells you everything.

The dead the snow hold back
you rub between your hands
--it's glare you're after

before it disappears
the way a cemetery fence
is painted, then overflows

--to get more white
you let this bathroom sink
open up in water

wrap the soap over and over
in that same wood
still burning --how else

can you bathe, the door
closed and follows you out
chased by flowers and the cold.

One hand held out --you expect
it to end pressed against a rain
already mixed with turns

and falling too far
--what you will remember
is how this road died down

though you needed both hands
when it counted
the way these handlebars

still reach for a quiet place
and the sound your arms make
when holding close --she

would forget with you
what's ahead, sometimes
dripping, sometimes she would lean

as far as possible
without touching your bones
or make room.

What a strange crop :the smell
spread out the way this mud is plowed
already warmed by the descent

used to one, one more, one more
though you are circling it
with your mouth left open

holding nothing, moving nothing
nothing but this dirt
no longer thirsty, confident

--what struggles here is the rain
still on the ground, thinning out
as lakes, at most as lips and distances

--here you've got to bend
to get a closer grip, pull up
this hillside broken loose

and lean into where this water takes you
handcuffed, smashed against the rocks
and on your knees more kisses.



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Book Reviews
Atreya Sarma: ‘Mystic Warrior’
GSP Rao: ‘Tapestry Poetry’
Jaydeep Sarangi: ‘Exchanges with the Thinker’
Priyanka Kakoti: ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’

Ambika Ananth: Editorial Note
Abin Chakraborty
Amreen B Shaikh
Ankush Banerjee
Charles Thielman
Jhuma Sen
Lora Tomas
Neelam Dadhwal
Rafiul Rahman
Rittvika Singh
Rob Harle
Rohan Dominic Mathews
Shanta Acharya
Simon Perchik
Sunita Raina Pandit

Shernaz Wadia: Editorial Comment
Anirudh Kala: ‘Mr Haq’
KL Chowdhury: ‘Tenderer than a Petal…’
Madhuliika Ghose: ‘Inspiration’
Prashila Naik: ‘The B.A. Pass Groom’
Sunil Sharma: ‘Dream’
Vempalle Shariff: ‘A Point of Nails’

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