The Misericord

Tired of Revelations
He bites his medieval cheek
And shakes his head
within his dusty cowl.

The misericord is a
Good place to rest
But, if you wish, you can
Test your stamina by standing
During long periods of
Prayer on the heel,
On the toe, on the heel.

He takes a deep knee
Bend and misses God.
He ruminates, he salivates
By thinking of red onions and garlic.

It is perfectly acceptable,
In the eyes of the Lord,
To rest a while and feel
His hook tug at the nape
Of your neck via a cord.

He runs a monkish tongue
Along his bleeding gums.
He has a rhythm to break
By resting. He won’t do it.

He likes patterns:
He makes the number three
And eight his lucky numbers
For the day.

Forget the worry
This is mercy: a
Dagger spared your
Bloated spleen.

Soon it will be over:
The final prayers have
Wings of their own-
They are the best.
They are angels.
He chooses to believe
He has a sanguine nature.

‘Thank you God for giving me the strength,’
He mumbles, ‘for keeping me
Upright without my
Mind or body finding too
Much pleasure in the final hymn that
Made me feel like
Pressing my neck forward so
My head is flung back and I can
Really appreciate your darker recesses.
I will do anything you wish:

I am ready for the knife,
(My neck is hungry for metal),
I am ready for the noose
(My body will hang extremely loose).’

The weaker ones, he observes
Turning his heavy head
Slowly towards them, long ago
Gave mercy something soft to grip.