You Fold This Sweater
By Simon Perchik
You fold this sweater the way a moth
builds halls from the darkness it needs
to go on living - safe inside its coffin
a family is gathering for dinner, cashmere
with oil, some garlic, a little salt, lit
and wings warmed by mealtime stories
about flying at night into small fires
grazing on the somewhere that became
the out-of-tune hum older than falling
- you close this closet draw and slowly
your eyes shut - with both hands
make a sign in the air as if death matters.
Simon Perchik’s poetry has appeared in Partisan Review, Poetry, The Nation, The New Yorker, and elsewhere.