Mercy, like the carcasses of dead animals in a foyer, being burned.
Fragrant, dreaming, unreal, and having to do, terribly, with love.
The sun shining dumbly all over this world and its troubles. The self on tiptoe sneaking away from the self. In the passing lane today, a woman with her mouth open behind the wheel of her car. Singing, or swearing, wearing a coat, driving through her life, and mine.
Hello, little lifeboat made of straw. Hello, floating multitude of my sins in a basket called Forgiveness on an ocean the name of which my son once mispronounced the Specific.
Hello, ugly memory of myself crouched down with my fists on my thighs yelling at that child:
Something about a stuffed animal and we're already late, and the palsied trees of winter behind me reflected for thousands of miles in his eyes.
by Laura Kasischke from Space, In Chains (2011)
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