MERCEDES LAWRY

A Wayward Measure of Time

Whittled clouds plunder a murky sky
as I contemplate conclusion, the small,
the everything, what words will matter,
what animal sounds. Winter’s bite has reached
my bones. Spoiled apples lie frozen in the yard
as the slightest green emerges, indomitable
it seems. Seasons click into place.
The square of suet is a quarter gone.
Moss clumps have fallen from the roof,
little carpets littering the walk.
The melting snow ticks, a wayward
measure of time. There are no echoes.

In the Extinction Vortex

What is the temperature?
What is the mood?
Is there frenzy and teeth gnashing?
Is there a particular stink?
 
Science may be all waving hands
and shaking heads, tut tuts
and the tail end of a prayer.
 
The last one won’t know
it’s the last one or
so we like to think.
Some of us don’t care, some
just avert their eyes.
 
Step back,
it’s a vortex after all
and will suck you down
too, all of us, no slapping of waves
or slithery swallow.
 
It is the final stretch,
everything hastening toward the center,
paws and fur and skin
and hearts, oh yes, hearts
and their diminishing beats.

Mercedes Lawry’s most recent book is Small Measures from ELJ Editions. She’s also published Vestiges from Kelsay Books, three chapbooks and poems in journals such as Nimrod and Alaska Quarterly Review. Additionally, she’s published short fiction as well as stories and poems for children.