The Cresset
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*
Simon Perchik

Before water was water it grieved
word by word the way each woman
caresses her first child

though what you hear is its mist
washing over those breasts
as moonlight and riverbanks

no longer struggling —by instinct
your lips will claim the Earth
with the kiss that gives each birth

its scent and between your arms
clings with just its bones
—with each kiss you drink

then weep and the dirt already rain
helps you remember nothing else
between your thirst and breathing.

 

 

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