You walk past as if the first death
was a bird – enormous feathers
half-stone, half-outworn, one by one
though they still need more time
could calm these dead, spread out
airborne, older than the number 10
than this hillside letting its small footsteps
fall standing erect, frightened
– you come here to listen for eggs
for echoes, for brothers, sisters – it’s useless
flying so close, wingtip to wingtip
till a moon is all that’s left
bringing you its black, covers you
already one hand on your shoulder
counting your fingers out loud to 0.
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.