*

All evening by itself

and weightless cradlesong

—I fill the warm sink

the way I would a bag

—there's a certain care

to dip the eyes into paper

—don't ask my why—I bathe your envelope

till a cheek falls away—I save

only the canceled seals, your letters

burning in a shallow bowl near the water

near the smoke drifting across this sink

making up new water I don't recognize

or why this useless postage stamp

is rescued—it was the sky calling out

was the eyes.

I lift this stamp to lay it down

one by one, softer than when

between the cemetery rows

and all those orderly lines

across the powerless stone and my eyes

—you send and what's left is all evening

another death :each letter

with all its heart the lullaby

about its heart, about its missing arms

—this plume in search for the disappeared

the missing stamp and glue

—you send and all night

—don't ask my why—I just let the water

—I have this fear, this passed upon

this sent out for, this martyrdom

struck, holding fast—the dead

hold fast to everything.

Only water. They want only water.

And gathering.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.  For more information, including his essay "Magic, Illusion and Other Realities" and a complete bibliography, please visit his website at www.simonperchik.com.