Mercy
1.
My husband drew the line at killing
a baby mole. But those tunnels in the yard
came from somewhere. He drove the mole
to the woods, left it there. Crueler than any
shovel, but he wasn’t the one
doing the killing. Like Pontius Pilate,
he washed his hands of it.
2.
Something had been nesting inside
our daughter’s outgrown dirt-bike boots,
slumped in a dark corner—full
of paper scraps and dry pasta. The home
was abandoned when I found it,
but I would have dumped the contents
even if something were nestled inside.
3.
Our child carefully trapped a spider
in her room, freed it outside. She knew
it was there for weeks, willing to share her space
until it bit her on the ankle. I’ve sanctioned
death for less: raccoon shit on my deck,
bird body-slams on my windows.
But while weeding my gardens yesterday,
I tiptoed around a sleeping fawn—
even though its mother ate my roses.
Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue #54, Fall 2022
Lynette Lamp 