Clemency (Poem)

My heart is not in my chest.

It sits, at this center,

somewhere above

and behind my stomach,

pounding hard.

My heart is not in my throat.

And my lips are shut--a line pressed firm and tight, so the wildfire stays inside.

I can not call myself a human, anymore.

And I can still feel this weight at the back of my mouth wanting to make noise.

Too much noise.

To yell, to scream.

My teeth are bared, and my tongue knows the flavor of dirt mixed with blood,

this refuse I have always been fed.

And so I lap at my bile like a dog with its ribcage showing,

and steam rises from the offal like warmth from blood strewn on snow.

It murmurs in the ancient voice of teeth.

Tear, rip, burn.

How far do you bend before you hear the wet cracks of your spine breaking?

All your trivial apologies,

empty regrets,

petty excuses,

clumsy manipulations: these would never save you now.

No, your stay of execution is not a clemency made of my own grace.

It is simply because I feel and have felt,

and will always remember down to my marrow,

the mercy of hands,

that love as a mother ought.

bvk, 2019.