You. (in perpetuity); i am the spark : Another moon for harvest
By: A. Pikovsky
You. (in perpetuity)
when the sun peaks thru the trees
do you feel the shadows rotate the earth,
dancing leaves cradling your soft feet?
& when you sing to the muddy g-d, whose
hands carry the severed strands of life?
are they yours?
() balancing the scales ()
it’s in the eyes of the deer,
watching, wavering, wandering.
i want to catch the buddha
dancing in your belly’s laughter
ten days until I kneel in worship,
touching the flesh that separates the soil,
tasting bodies braided of dough, dusted in seed.
, in perpetuity, echo what i said,
from an earlier life:
we are never who we are.
fleeting at the moments tied to our
for the promise of permanence
buzzes for us in the warmth
of the evening light & we bathe
in it; we pray with it.
up the crunchy path of purpose,
of prose, but want for
your humming face,
pulsating in my palms,
like stones to the creek, when/where
i’ll ask you to be my last lover.
& in the melted garden,
when my hair tickles the edge
of your ribcage, right where I’ve planted
each kiss, I hope you’ll draw
‘ forever ‘
along the trail
of my spine,
where I’ll keep
my wings lifted
for you & only for you.
i am the spark : Another moon for harvest
another moon for the harvest. whose midnight legs trotted wistfully thru cornstalks, dazed & delayed by vast impermanence? the body knows – it is only a brain, dangling, & dressed faithfully. wet with wonder, waiting. waiting for the new year, the sky is the lake; pink ribbons rippled thru darkness until it ((all)) shrinks. night is liquid velvet pouring from light, falling for dawn & i (always the little i), heard the bananafish swim thru the thighs of strangers, just floating thru clouds & fogging the eyes. haunted by the fleeting bloom, we wait for new reflection, counting all of the lilies in the valley. slimy was the dream waking me, drifting into the place she called a bubbling brook. i want to taste the briny wishes of yesterday, where the rain’s spit salted the earth & the leaves were colored by the crackling crunch of an open flame wrapped in laughter. but it’s all right here, from the centerfold, from the spark.
i am the spark.
A. Pikovsky is a poet living in Philly who is the child of Jewish Soviet immigrants.
"It is usually very important for me that my work move/engage/touch/etc readers as needed in their respective lives. I love to speak of my intentions with the works, or what something represents, but I'm much more interested in using my works as a tool to connect with people & to help them in their own journey of reflection, connection, & realization. Expressing what the works means to me would then remove my most crucial intention: letting the work reveal itself to the reader & help them be less alone as they process both joy & suffering in their world.
I will say ((you)) is a poem inspired by someone close to me named David & loosely inspired by the King David as well. I was hoping to dedicate it to (King) David, potentially.
I am the spark is about floating through the vast beauty of life, of feeling neglected & empty, because of my own refusal to live with a sense of love & compassion for myself. Many struggle with this. It's about being one with nature but feeling isolated with those of your kind, of people, of family. It is about waiting for Rosh Hashana to offer a new life & closing the book on suffering in the old year. It about the cleansing, the forgiveness, the patience we seek as Yom Kippur ( i wrote this work between the two holidays) approaches. It about the metaphysical as much as the secular rituals which keep us grounded, which remind us that even as most difficult times approach, even when we lose ourselves in darkness or in loss, we must remember that only we can empower ourselves, heal ourselves. It is through celebration and love and compassion of yourself, through the realization that you are your life's spark, straight from the center. At this realization, you can finally begin living & living more vibrantly without the suffocating burden of self abuse, loathing, or neglect. "