First on paper then the carpenters
following the saws —in the end
the house was divided with borders
where each wall was scented by a song
still playing when the hammers
were silenced the way you grip this knob
then leave a room that has no place to go
though you turn the radio around, sing along
till the static no longer comes from nails
stiffening, beginning to foam as each board
draws its wood tighter around your throat
—it’s a small house, a kitchen
that’s gaining weight, a sink
where iron drips just for the flash
when it touches the ground the way the dead
weigh less when the last thing they saw
was the darkness, drop by drop
opening the corners, the water, louder and louder.
——
Simon Perchik’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.