Coups de Grâce

Blows of Mercy come in many forms.

Like the Sisters they can beat the truth out of you with the tooth nailed splinter of a ruler.

Like the sisters, before they married the Bridegroom of the Father, they might blow gentle braided seizures of breath into your hair, and across your eyelashes, formulating wishes as they go.

The hooded man in black, built like an outhouse of shit and stone, he offers the same if you forgive him first, and he gives you his hand, made from the same God as we all are, in order that you may not suffer anymore.

The joyful whore who kneels under you, smiling stars across her chest and face, well- that is a completely differing set of commandments, but your cries of mercy are just what she wants to hear, even after she’s done wiping the corner of her generous mouth.

It’s all in how you look at it, I suppose.

What kills you, what smashes your head in, what drives you to ecstasy worth ringing the doorbell of Heaven for, even after you get whispers of “we don’t want any, thanks”…what makes you the victim, the saint, the circumstance, lies within your hand- the martyr is the one who wins the prize, and the prize might be to die in front of a large and expectant audience, but-

If you go to your death like a God -just the same god as did get fellated by the grinning, kneeling woman of Christ- who does lift his hands to the pictures in the sky to say “Mercy” and take what has come to him, and to you, then the Blows of Mercy stay true to their name.

Say it with the Sisters….Slap your rulers with the might of an angry Old Testament Father. "Rejoice” in all its forms. The battle ax comes down on your limbs, the air outside draws you into its mannerisms, and she dusts herself off after you zip up your fly, and onto the next wheel we go.
M. Lucia