Jill Pearlman
Vanishing Point
Our road
has no vanishing point.
Shadows worn by love,
we walk
and walk under heavy
boughs that ache
with green-black into
our deepest
past our road
shines
like tar into time
its lines
will never merge.
We were meant to dance.
Fleeting
In the spring mist
I smell her breath—
A single drop clings to a
branch, bright-eyed, winking
from dark to light.
She is the flash of the moon,
dark craters.
Sweet. More dew
than fruit.
A slender shiver, a
cool draft. A gasp,
and she is gone.
Le Soir
The crickets chant
an endless round
soft, softer still
they melt and falter
you can hardly
hear their dervish call
a distant planet
a rubbed-out moon
they woo my heart
as big as the abyss
They sing without a sound
beyond the open door
Jill Pearlman is a poet and fiction writer with particular interests in ecstasy, aesthetics and the body. She has recently finished a novel, Clio's Mobile Home and has published poetry in Salamander's spring issue. She is based in Providence, RI. She explores issues regularly in her blog, jillpearlman.com. She can be reached at: jillbpearlman@gmail.com
