It’s this thin envelope, empty, closed
gasping for air though your knuckles
are still flickering–what you hold
was never mailed, lets you rest
read the address over and over
just to move it further off
away from this boiling mountainside
ripping apart, flowing down your arm
with nothing left and cools–these days
you don’t lick the glue–in all directions
your mouth is her name, alone
coming back as ashes and snow.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker, and elsewhere. His most recent collection is Almost Rain, published by River Otter Press (2013). For more information, free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities”, please visit his website at http://www.simonperchik.com.