Mercy by Mary Bradford
For Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde
“Everything faded into mist.
The past was erased,
the erasure was forgotten,
the lie became truth.”
George Orwell, 1984
Some say love it or leave it.
I prefer to stay and fight.
Even as bloodthirsty gods of
perverse patriotic passion
demand—require—
blood sacrifice.
Let her bleed.
Let them bleed.
Let them be afraid as we
burn it to the ground and
recreate it in our own image.
Even as our domestic mirror warps,
shooting back a twisty-rotten reflection
of truthdeath,
an amnesia of conscience.
Even as the blubbery god of
vicious vitriol
slithers back into power,
smothering his victims with
slippery, slanderous slop.
Even as 47 drops of blood splatter on
the bundles of money the billionaire offers.
47 drops of blood will get you a nice new wallet
filled with Monopoly money.
We all know who owns Park Place and
what they intend to use it for.
Even as Jesus weeps under
a diamond-studded crucifix.
There a predatory rogues gallery circles up
to surround the woman who is slowly bleeding out.
Cloaked in robes of brownly-reeking doublethink,
they spout the twisty truths of the tyrant as
she draws her final breath.
Respect life!
War is peace!
Freedom is slavery!
Love is hate!
Pillaging thugs are heroes!
Let her die.
Let them die.
Let us make them afraid as we burn it all to the ground and
recreate it in our holy image.
But the preacher-woman is not afraid.
She cries MERCY
for the multitudes who are.
Jesus wipes his tears.
Small of stature but
fierce in spirit
she glides past them,
speaking softly and carrying a big stick.
Fearless—
though her stomach churns.
Strong—
though her legs are suddenly rubbery.
Forceful—
for she knows who she is:
an open channel for her good friend,
that kindly, brown-skinned prophet from Galilee who
is so weary of being misquoted.
He, who famously said:
Do not judge, and you will not be judged.
Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.
Pardon, and you shall be pardoned.
Give, and it shall be given to you.
Good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over…
For the measure you measure with will be
measured back to you.
Woke pabulum, they cry!
Jesus, who learned about irony from
his streetwalker-pals,
now starts to laugh as
the bishop slyly grins and
rolls her eyes.
They are not afraid.
They know who they are
and how conversion works,
how to play the long game even
in the cruelest of times,
when a good-troubling arc of justice
eludes.
"A spider's web is stronger than it looks.
Although it is made of thin, delicate strands,
the web is not easily broken."
E.B. White, Charlotte's Web
Jesus, who always loved to spin tales,
is not surprised when he spots whimsical spiders
weaving wakeful wonder-signs
just above their heads
and out the windows
and down the street
and around the nation
and beyond. . .
Jesus, who always cherished kids and their stories,
recognizes that it’s Charlotte’s namesakes who are keeping
this wickedly wild web of many colors going,
year after year.
Some years are easier than others,
that’s for sure.
They spin without pause for
they know their time is short,
these wily weavers of truth-telling who
keep hope alive while saving
a few good folks along the way.
Jesus, who always loved a good laugh,
encourages the Charlottes to
weave the lewdly ludicrous lacquered locks
of the doddering despot into
silken missives of hope.
Their legs and spirits fly.
SOME BISHOP
the strands proclaim across his forehead.
SOME RESISTANCE
the baby-fine hairs on the top of his head announce as
the arachnid artisans skirt the substantial bald spot there.
The tyrant’s toadies scramble to put things back in order
but they are not quick enough to block the
wispy, wondrous messages winging forth into
an awakening web of worldwide proportions,
straight to the hearts of those who
are just about to give up.
There’s no stopping them now.
And Jesus,
who’s always loved a good challenge,
smiles.