The wry scientist feels heroics are unnecessary.
She shirks the convoluted equations and heads
for the atomic heart. The orbit of thought sliced
by need, dissected by a frivolous narrative
and neatly stacked by the bed. Hence, dreams
without effort. Little bird feet tick tacking
on a page, the world is a cage, is a series of
clashing explanations like greens, winter,
spring, what grows and dies to a sad, skint twig.
She is no mother of mercy. She is no shrill Cassandra.
Let’s all spin, she thinks, till we fall down,
proving a point in the garbled scheme of the world.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 14, Issue 1.
Mercedes Lawry has published in Poetry, Rhino, Nimrod, Poetry East and elsewhere. She’s published two chapbooks: There Are Crows in My Blood & Happy Darkness, fiction & stories & poems for children.
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