Motion
The bishop’s sorrow sprinkles in fine flakes.
The dizzy children stink of sugar.
Spin, the world shakes off its cares.
Spin, there is no echo.
Deep rain sings a lament.
The lonely brave a stiff wind.
Churn, the axis slips off base.
Churn, there is no bleat.
Sky and shadow, the runners
catch neither though fortitude swims
in their blood. The motion of living
pleads pattern and chaos, splendor and regret.
After the Storm
A riptide, bracketed by ease,
pulls within a lack of resistance.
The slow-swimming clouds,
once a cause for regret,
become a welcome conclusion.
So little pause between the shrill cries
and later, the night birds, even later
sobbing as no one returns,
much less singing or unafraid.
The day after, a slight wind
in swept spirals, hearkens east,
as the brushed-blue sky is matter of fact,
as the morning shows its ragged seams,
as the witnesses stand, mute and desolate.
Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals 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. She lives in Seattle.
Steel Toe Review 