No. 8

Winter 2005

I'll unwrap the suit
in case there's a wedding
or I'm invited to the city morgue
-- what's ahead
likes something new.

I'll re-set my watch, wind it
the way a fresh harness brushes a horse
-- only a warm knife can scrape
just the pain from bread
from this butter no longer sweet
harder than wax

-- I'll hold the worn-out side
like a page read again and again
in a room kept cold.
As if words too can go bad.

I'll keep the window open.
Who knows when the dark wants to leave
-- all night it walks on my blanket
and aimless mourners reading side to side
will follow the corpse for years

-- the crisp, linen suit! and the thin tie.
No, I won't hang myself or set a place.
Who would come to this darkness for old bread
except the morning, always starving, in a hurry.

I'll unpack, unpack -- my fingers will bleed
from string tighter than gunpowder
boxed and labeled
and warnings from ahead :the suit

has that same label
sewn to get a better foothold
to cover the heart
stiff from the cold -- what's ahead

is always sweating past.
I use that heat.
I loosen the door
in case there's a footstep
or a bow to unwrap.

Copyright 2005, Simon Perchik

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.