The heart is a broken record, a botched detour, a scallywag, a scab. Mourning does not rescue or provide an exit. The slender apple boughs arch and fiddle in the light wind. Clouds are deep groans, too close to the sorrow, too far from the feckless sun. April greens struggle against the leaden grays. I … Continue reading I Muse in Holy Week
by Mercedes Lawry
Crows zig past a scold of clouds. Winds come and go in frantic bursts. Trees hasten toward the ground, then pleat the sky. All November in its gray layers, humbling our hopes. Electric light early in the day as if day never fully expands. Such brown left from last week’s frost, dull, lacking vibrance. Heartaches … Continue reading All November
by Mercedes Lawry
The paper-skin woman was begging at the corner, or was she asking? Perhaps it was as simple as hope. How many in the cars grinding past were hungry? Ruin had come by earlier wearing a party dress. She said she was giving up the ghost, but the paper-skin woman wasn’t interested in ghosts. Or the … Continue reading In Corner Pocket
by Mercedes Lawry
