Back to Issue 1
Mercedes Lawry -- Poetry
Point of Departure
under the wet song of November
dark as a blood spot, no hovering of wing, great sacks of gray in the sky as all fury at stolen hope startles the last silence of a world where language has escaped, where shadows lie against the ground like small deaths, the cry of a lone hawk shears the crush of silence like the intake of breath at the point of departure
Pardon the furniture arranged to perfection,
interior mirror of calculated space with horizontal mimicking the serene and vertical, an anchor of self in nothing. Guarded, she steps and sits, lifts and exhales, measuring her accountability. How close are the floodwaters? Wind at window and darkness on its way. She will not wither or plead. Place is how her soul endures, natural disasters kept at arm’s length with a glib phrase. Her own caustic journey seeps across the floor. Marking shadows, she feels a gladness, slow transformation of the pale greens sufficient as the hours and her own instinct to inhabit. |
Mercedes Lawry Mercedes Lawry has published poetry in such journals as Poetry, Rhino, Nimrod, Poetry East, Seattle Review, and others. She’s also published fiction and humor as well as stories and poems for children. Among the honors she’s received are awards from the Seattle Arts Commission, Hugo House, and Artist Trust. She’s been a Jack Straw Writer, held a residency at Hedgebrook and is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her chapbook, “There are Crows in My Blood”, was published by Pudding House Press in 2007 and another chapbook, “Happy Darkness,” was released by Finishing Line Press in 2011. She lives in Seattle. |
Pause, end of pause.
Attempt at language. Breathe shallow, breathe deep. Disturbance, as if a page had been torn from a book. Ruthless, this theft and those helping with the getaway, those sentence demons licking at the punctuation. Take sound, swallow meaning. Even if the rain is scribbling at the window, the readers will not look up. Clues on the shelves, string them together and slip them into your bones. Glean story from absence. Word, no word, all words in hazardous commotion. |
|
