by Simon Perchik
In the silence above your grave a butterfly
waits for your eyes to open, hears
their pollen living off the darkness
and for a long time this way and that
returns with dirt in its mouth
to find who buried you—not yet a bird
it sifts for step by step though the ground
is still breathing in the smoke
fires don’t want anymore—from memory
one wingtip will follow the other
loosen the huge stone looming over you
as cradlesong made from wood and side to side
as if there is a name for afterward
some ashes will still cover the shoes
mourners unlace just for the sound.
Simon Perchik (December 24, 1923 – June 14, 2022) was an American poet who has been described by Library Journal as "the most widely published unknown poet in America." Perchik worked as an attorney before his retirement in 1980. Educated at New York University, he later resided in East Hampton, New York. Best known for his highly personal, non-narrative style of poetry, Perchik's work has appeared in over thirty books, websites including Verse Daily and Jacket, and numerous print magazines, including The New Yorker, Poetry, Partisan Review, The Nation, North American Review, Weave Magazine, JuxtaProse Literary Magazine, and CLUTCH. His poetry collection, Hands Collected, was longlisted for the 2000 National Book Award for Poetry.