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Pectoriloquy |

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Simon Perchik, LLB
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Editor’s Note: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

Editor’s Note: Simon Perchik is an attorney whose poems have appeared in Partisan Review, The New Yorker and elsewhere.

Editor’s note for authors of submissions to Pectoriloquy: Poems should not exceed 350 words, should not have been previously published, and should be related to concerns of physicians and medicine. First submissions to the Pectoriloquy Section should be submitted via e-mail to poetrychest@aol.com. Authors of accepted poems will be asked to submit the final version to CHEST Manuscript Central.

Michael Zack, MD, FCCP

Editor’s note for authors of submissions to Pectoriloquy: Poems should not exceed 350 words, should not have been previously published, and should be related to concerns of physicians and medicine. First submissions to the Pectoriloquy Section should be submitted via e-mail to poetrychest@aol.com. Authors of accepted poems will be asked to submit the final version to CHEST Manuscript Central.

Michael Zack, MD, FCCP

Reproduction of this article is prohibited without written permission from the American College of Chest Physicians (http://www.chestpubs.org/site/misc/reprints.xhtml).

Reproduction of this article is prohibited without written permission from the American College of Chest Physicians (http://www.chestpubs.org/site/misc/reprints.xhtml).


Chest. 2011;140(6):1663. doi:10.1378/chest.10-2893
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Published online

Its power comes from this froth
–never mind there’s no caldron
to make sense, you drink
listening to bubbles work a cure
are healed when the fountain
touches you, smelling from gauze
and nursing homes –the old
have no choice, they let the faucet
run and for a while
wait at the sink for something
they’re not sure
–they have no memory
though the drought is always there
shaped as a stone reaching out
for kisses whose lips are the breath
rising year by year from all water
and once in your mouth, by magic
becomes the word for waiting
with both eyes closed –you drink
what must be your shadow
floating off half foam, half waterfall
scraping your throat on the rocks
–all the way down a spray
made ageless, washing over you.


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