Amy Casey, Ill Wind, 2018, Ink and Acrylic on Paper, 22″ X 30″
*
You water her grave with words
–they never dried, were written
at night, sure this stone
would rot inside the note
though you don’t fold your arms
–what spills has eddies, swells
shorelines reaching into the Earth
no longer certain –this stone
doesn’t recognize itself
is growing roots, sags
becomes a sea, the bottom
holds on, unable to stand
or come closer, cover her
without seeing your fingers
or what it’s like.
__________________
Simon Perchik