I must fast and this cup
shallow, staring at sand
—eat nothing but water
though the moon has never forgotten
—my lips even then were dark.

I must crawl
in circles, weightless, my arms
dancing with each other
and the moon comes closer, my knees
bleeding, older.

I must get down to bone, drain
as if the exhausted light
filling with red lullabies

—nothing but this cup left open
—eat nothing but the water
rippling, reaches for my lips
not sure who is singing

and the silt pulls my name away
—I forget who to call
—this craving for moonlight
—from just a few drops
my lips beginning to swell
and the weeping.

—Simon Perchik 

 

 

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