poemmercy

Mercy



My throat is a clenched fire,
an arson’s match.  All day long I have
watched a huge porcupine
like a pile of coal or a burnt stump
move about the yard in the cold rain
eating apples, satisfying the
soft, needy underside she protects,
and I think I know what it is
to cause anguish to those who touch you,
to forage alone, and to crave
sweet mouthfuls of mercy.
Runes 2006