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Simon Perchik

You lean against her thigh
as if this gravestone
no longer smells from grass

longs for a dry riverbed
not sure you can undress her
even in the dark

though its lettering is stranded
sheltered and your embrace
still breathing in her name

her just-another-word-for-loving-you
that lets you sweat
without moving your lips

still covered by an overnight longing
pulling them apart then emptied
to remember your only hope.

Simon Perchik's poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.