My Mother Forgets the Word for Mercy
the general shouts bury ‘em where they lie
& the fire subsides / enemies rolled into a pit /
the victorious dead in flag-draped boxes / lying
in state as the credits roll // mercy is unwalkable
distance between the soil we die on & the dirt
tossed over our grave / mercy is the hole
the soil that bears us // like a mother
mercy walks anyway / arms extended
coaxing the sky from its womb // every funeral
I’ve been to was fitted around work red-eye
flights one change of clothes / mercy is space
between death & burial / burial & goodbye / goodbye
& your hand forgiving the last cell to ever touch them /
mercy is unlimited time off / & paid / in the living
room / napping beside the body // mercy is no more
general / fire / flag // mercy is my mother
watching my brother love his long-gone father / mercy
is forgetting // mother mercy
left you plucking raisins from sills that open on waters
I have never touched // mercy / must be near
-ness / a body soothed by the soil that birthed it / lovers
& mothers visit on lunch break // in the book
on my nightstand / amnesia
is the hero / of the story / the hero in flesh
is a woman who knows ten words / who believes
zero might be mercy // the average
person knows 20,000 words / too few of which
are synonyms for mercy / grace / or a cage
Alex Dodt is a high school philosophy teacher in Phoenix. His previous work appears in Qu Magazine and Devastation Baby.