Mercy
Gail Peterson
Charlie’s beginning to smell like an old man—
he’s worn that flannel shirt one week too long.
She doesn’t mind—
she likes the blue-green plaid,
how it serves his frame, the softness.
Anyway, she knows she needs her Listerine.
Charlie’s not a talker.
All these years, she’s mostly only had
the sight, the smell, the feel of him.
She doesn’t mind, really.
A look, a pat, a grin set the meter of her moods,
provide the iambs, regular as heartbeats,
more reliable than poetry.
A silent man. Saint or simpleton?
She once put too much stock in talk
and walked a lie into a bramble.
She knows she’s been forgiven
more than Charlie’s ever bothered to let on.
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