Simon Perchik

*
Going somewhere with you
is all it holds on to
--a single blanket

the kind the dead carry
over them
--you can't tell the difference

though you wish there were
--to warm is all it knows
and you are led under

till your mouth opens
looking for her
--to kiss, empty her throat

with your own --on faith
you stretch out
bring back to the room

her damp scent
tied at one end
and not the other

--with both eyes closed
you show her her picture
without thinking.

Kusha Poddar

My Book of Noir

That I dream dead bodies
In the stream, all skin,
The authority says
Do not exist, and
The incident never happened,
And they died from their own
Fairy gang's bullets, and
Imagine those eraser marks
Across the sky, tail-blazes
Says something about
My love for life. I dream
Lying huddled with them.

Small Messages

In your absence
I water your plant,
Never during
Your presence.

I feed it bone dust,
Blood of a neck wrung
Chicken so it may
Bloom white as if

Everything goes right,
Even brighter
When you live
Somewhere else