As if a rope, half-bone
half pulled from your chest
the way this dead branch
tells you everything then closes
though the wood won’t burn
– so many things are made from doorways
and she was left inside
with nothing to sit on or a stone
that will fall by itself, broken off
to die alone, whispering goodbye
for two and this dirt not yet
just another hole that weighs too much.
Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, Forge, Poetry, Osiris, The New Yorker and elsewhere. His most recent collection is The B Poems, published by Poets Wear Prada, 2016. For more information, including free e-books and his essay titled “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities”, please visit his website at http://www.simonperchik.com.