This chair no longer moves by itself
though you covered it with a dress
the way all sleeves empty in the dark
–what you want her to wear
you throw over her shoulders and the table too
knows how each warm breeze begins
by moving the chair closer to you
while reaching for a bowl and spoon
as if you were still feeding someone
could salt her lips with your fingers
not yet turning to dust and mold –you eat
in a coat, sure the bread will cool
no longer smelling from arms and shoulders
from being burnt for the few ashes
you are fed as crust and ends.
Simon’s poetry has also appeared in Partisan Review, The Nation, The New Yorker and elsewhere.