Image
of Mercy
Image
of mercy
her two
hands hold a grace
full
space
the
wind blows her gown around
her
stillness
replaced
haltingly
on a
shelf in this half-bombed-out apartment
the old
woman's
lower
lip
trembles
these
wars are mine
yet not
the
white-haired woman in black
is
alone in the ruined building
and
there is no signal
to
reach her I must drive
from
dark path to dark path
pocky
ruts, bomb craters, soldiers, debris,
and
history block the way
my
language is foreign
our
enemies' faces are unclear
what I
can do
and
what she needs
disparate
hurriedly
I swallow the rest of my tea
my
hands on the steering wheel are still the same hands
holding
this wheel
history
trembling
praying
to hold
enough history to be able to lay it down
the
hands beside me in the car,
gray,
taut, with nails full of grit,
the
hands loading the truck with food,
deft,
large-knuckled, raw,
the
hands that flash the signal in the darkness
mercy
the
hands that axe open the door
grace
the
hands that pick through the rubble
may
find a broken porcelain image
hands
graceful
which
might be mended
the
wind blows her gown around
her
stillness
--Deanna Hopper
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