Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

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by Simon Perchick

 

Every meal begins with your hands
dry and around your forehead
squeezes into its hiding place

–in such a darkness both shoulders
slump forward till they hear
the tablecloth pulled closer

fed air and a shirt collar
left open, waiting to lie down
where a plate should be –it’s the sound

your fingers make when drop by drop
a makeshift lake is pieced together
from a missing vase –wherever you eat

it’s night, still wet, bending over
and hand to hand breathe in the smoke
from a chair no longer there

–you eat from a chimney, reach up
with your eyes covered by a bedsheet
still warm from roses and ash.