With a rootless gallop
the interrogators erase consequence.
Harsh measures, silence, the eagerness
of greed, all spinning in a twist
of thwarted justice beneath
a fallen sky. Sour yellow
lines the edges of bodies broken
into segments as if this
will produce that; inflict, inform.
At what point does pleasure appear?
Does it come like soft rain
or in a surge?
You’ll find a rosary of insanity here,
where borders disappear.
Limbs rise and fall, flesh
blooms and bubbles. Tears of brine.
Removed tenderness. This one,
blood-scrolled and twitching,
may be brimming with intelligence.
Bring all the darkness within
to a fine point. Bring out the deliberate monsters.
Ask question after question without pause.
Souls are rusting in dank corners
for they have no use here.
A vertebrae of seed pods ticks
as wind licks the undersides to leaf tremor.
A scold of clouds removes all blue,
all second chances. Day hastens, unravels
as the weary test limits of self
with the graves of those left behind.
Flies circle winking eyes
as if desperation wore wings.
A long line trails an ess in the dust
and folds of yellow grass.
The children no longer cry.
This is a squander of such magnitude.
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in journals such as Poetry, Nimrod, Prairie Schooner, Poetry East, Natural Bridge and others. Thrice-nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she’s published two chapbooks, most recently "Happy Darkness." She’s also published short fiction, essays and stories and poems for children. Mercedes lives in Seattle.