Simon Perchik
162
Her loom as if some wounds
can never close, are dragged
and the lamb - how soft death is
how white!
all
at once
it covers the sky
fills
willl
this vague tearing apart
- documents, pages, rags
and she
is
combing out the lamb
from its fountain and torn again
- her fingers can't close, pulled down
by a waterfall :each strand
the mark on its throat - the lamb
put back together :her child
- over and over she rocks some crib
as ifits blanket could break apart
and a little further off the sun
keep warm, nursed on the tiny stream
held in her arms - she sings to it
wringing it - inside, slowly
more tears and the years ahead.
