DEATH Poem: mercy, by Ciera Jones

The morning orb melted soft and pink in
the dead dry grass of our slushie footsteps-
just in time for the grand finale. His
breath ate the air like old tobacco as
the doe took her last breaths. He said, ‘aim for
its breast, hook your finger on the lever,
and pull’-
but what should I do if the lead bursts through
the other side of her intestinal
tract, and I flinch at the barrel’s violent sight
with force like Icarus’s golden end.
{….}
She lay bleary eyed, wheezing the
cruel air by rusted nostrils. still, grief runs
through my chest as dad drags graveyards past our
front porch onto gambrel hooks. while some parts
decay in industrial trash plastic-
a tragedy with no end to all, but
him and his god-like duplicitousness. as
such, those conquering camoed hands clicked the
safety off grandpa’s rifle, and took her
pain after five minutes of us sitting
and watching- a gift for us all.

Author: poetryfest

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