Simon Perchik, Celestial Recess 1

Its power comes from this froth
–never mind there’s no caldron
to make sense, you drink

listening to bubbles work a cure
are healed when the fountain
touches you, smelling from gauze

and nursing homes –the old
have no choice, they let the faucet
run and for a while

wait at the sink for something
they’re not sure
–they have no memory

though the drought is always there
shaped as a stone reaching out
for kisses whose lips are the breath

rising year by year from all water
and once in your mouth, by magic
becomes the word for waiting

with both eyes closed –you drink
what must be your shadow
floating off half foam, half waterfall

scraping your throat on the rocks
–all the way down a spray
made ageless, washing over you.

Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker, Poetry, The Nation, Southern Humanities Review, and elsewhere. For more information, including his essay, “Magic, Illusion and Other Realities,” visit his website at