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
like tar into time 
its lines
will never merge.

We were meant to dance. 




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