Simon Perchik
What you still carry to bed
is this water coming from a well
icing over, masks your cheeks
and though there's no pillow
it's your mouth that's melting
filling the hole where she used to sleep
–in such a darkness say what you want
this sheet took the white from your eyes
that look at nothing but walls
–you are washing your face with a room
emptied out to freeze her half
where there are no mornings left.
Bio
My poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.