Feeling Mercy
Officially, the memory is little and pale:
me by the stoop in front of the car
like she said.
Four years old, by the trash cans,
then waking
in a spongy yellow blanket,
unable to find my feet.
Dr. Sovich moving his mask to smile
to prove he wasn't a stranger.
They say what happened after the cans,
before the yellow blanket, was my mother
with her permit to drive
our car
between my legs up to my heart, smashing
half my face on the stoop, back
down from my heart, back between, then off me.
It went fast.
Since then I've had bad vision
on the one side.
I do remember the trash can side wanting
a mirror to see the side that met the stoop.
She wanted to spare me, yet she gave in.
I do not remember the sight of it, red,
orchid, black. A liquid center slit, also red.
Since then I have made things easier
so my mother wouldn't have to see
others pale when I say what happened,
when they wonder, did she mean
to do it? I move their fear and smile
to prove she wasn't a danger.
I do not remember cries or bad words
that might have scripted nightmares,
or feeling mercy on my parent, who
had only me
to remind her of miracles. To evaporate
then materialize hardly changed, well,
since then they say what happened, what happened
to me, it's hard to believe.
I do remember the pale of that summer:
me in front of the window
getting better, like she said.
Four years old without permission,
finding my little feet rising
to help me see, unable
to dance in the spongy lawn, no mercy
from the yellow sprinkler, stuck
on the one side.
