Mercy
The sun through
                a hairline crack
between two thunderheads
                cast the burnt hill ahead
into gold, the sole horse grazing the hill
                I named Mercy. You text: Back home you wait
for me belly-down
                on the bed. Was it mercy
I felt on my knees
                working my way around
the spot where you’d
                been torn? All I know
love isn’t worth this.
                You do what you must
to feel good, to be
                good once more.
Very early this morning you rolled over,
                said, I think I love you too much. Under
porchlight, before dawn,
                I watched bees drop out
their hive like a burst
                of gold glitter, a glimmer
of their own making, or a gift
                I hadn’t earned.