Mercedes Lawry

Fact of the Matter

                                          
The downtown girls go clickety-clack, lights winking, thieves slinking out of shadows
and their own skin. Don’t the horns matter, rhythms of sweet sex and farewells? Step
ferocious. Dark of the moon while the liars tell their mothers just enough. What oozes
out of the night? Hunger in a tweed coat, artificial intelligence, micro-waved popcorn,
lust. This one smells of lemon soap and beer. That one’s losing hair. The men of
authority admire their shiny shoes as a cold wind razors down the avenues where
nobody’s selling mercy.
​

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Couples Therapy

She took her lithe desperation
   undid the knots and tossed it
     from the bridge. Consider
   her need for recognition.
This story has no chapters. 

He lined up the shovels,
   small to large, and weighed
     his options against the size
   of the hole. After midnight,
​he would begin to dig, without whistling.

 


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Mercedes Lawry