The Mercy Hour
Taylor Byas
a Burning Haibun, after Torrin A. Greathouse
After rough nights, we sleep without touching, dream of what we should have said instead of what we didn’t. But mercy finds us in the newborn dawn. The sheets bunch like the texture of a Bernini sculpture. The light through the curtains, egg-carton gray. Unseen, you silence your work alarm. Find handfuls of me under the covers. Say do we have enough time? Half-asleep, I open. We rock into a frenzy quietly, as if children are in the next room. I wet a silhouette of my back onto fresh sheets. I keep my eyes closed, let my body begin the forgiving. When we are done, the playing field has been leveled. You pepper my collarbone with your sorrys, and I line your neck with mine.
When you go shower, the sun is a voyeur. I lay out to dry while it bakes your remains into my skin.
*
After rough nights, we sleep without touching
. Dream of what we should have said in place
of what we didn’t. But mercy finds us
in the newborn dawn. The sheets bunch
like details in a Bernini sculpture. The light
through the curtains, egg-carton gray. Blindly,
you silence your work alarm. Find handfuls
of me under the covers. Say do you think
we have enough time? Half-asleep, I open.
We rock into a frenzy quietly, as if children
are in the next room. I wet a silhouette
of my back onto fresh sheets. I keep my eyes
closed, let my body begin the forgiving.
When we are done, the playing field
has been leveled. You pepper my collarbone
with your sorrys, and I line your neck with mine.
When you go shower, the sun is a voyeur. I lay out
to dry while it bakes your remains into my skin.
*
Unseen, you silence your work alarm. Find handfuls of
me under the covers. We rock into a frenzy, quietly wet.
your sorrys. it bakes your remain s into my skin.
When Lonely, I Want What I Shouldn’t | Anti-Ode for an Ex
Taylor Byas
It would be just like this, could still be—
a grating chorus of forks raking
through my homemade gravy, three clean
white lines before the sauce re-floods
each trench. Your parents could be visiting
for the weekend, the dirt from their luggage wheels
stamped in dashes on the living room carpet,
and maybe we’d argue about who
should get on their knees, go to town
with the scrubbing brush and cleaner.
And when your father hums his approval
as I bend down to the oven, I could laugh
at the quick crack of his hand hitting
yours before he says I see what you mean,
son. I see what you mean. Baby, I could forget
to say prayer if you like. If it meant
your mother would cut her eyes at me,
if it meant you’d punish me with silence
in bed. It could be all I needed; your muscled
back outlined in the glow of my phone’s screen,
the easy whir of your breathing. I could love
the sound of you, and the sound only.
Or maybe, during dinner, your mother
could try to pray a child into my womb
before asking me to pass the salt.
And should I be honest here? I would lie
and tell her soon if it meant you’d stop
eating, your silverware clanking onto the square
plate. We both know we’re not ready.
But hell, you’d finally look at me.
Taylor Byas is a Black poet and essayist from Chicago. She currently lives in Cincinnati where she is a second year PhD student and Albert C. Yates Scholar at the University of Cincinnati, pursuing her degree in Creative Writing (Poetry). She is a reader for both The Rumpus and The Cincinnati Review, and the Poetry Editor for FlyPaper Lit. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New Ohio Review, The Journal, Borderlands Texas Poetry Review, Hobart, Pidgeonholes, and others. Her prose appears in Another Chicago Magazine, Empty Mirror, Jellyfish Review, and others.