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Marks of Mercy Jesse Morales

See, the hovering child gathers everything: hand-brushes, arguments, honey drips, the obsolete ring of a rotary phone. Home, for a child, is a kind of overfilled coverture, bursting like a cheesecloth or a heavy sky. For her, floating between television and easel, patio and mailbox and den, truth needs no art: each object seems true, full, lacking nothing. Somehow, even handling her kittens so eagerly, her eyes bespeak a kind of suspension, a kind of easy girlish quietism, the old faith that the line of our lives runs solid from this world into the next: life after life, life inside life, life bursting every border, life’s fire enflaming us all in hand-to-mouth joy. How sweet to be a child, to taste the more concrete pains of living, to love your own limited geography boisterously, to mark your own walls with fingerpaint, to embody a metaphysic of mercy in fluttering kisses after a hurt feline cry.

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Profile for Apeiron Review

Apeiron Review | Summer 2015  

The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based literary magazine, is ready for you and a glass of your favorite beverage. Cool off...

Apeiron Review | Summer 2015  

The summer issue of Apeiron Review, a Philadelphia-based literary magazine, is ready for you and a glass of your favorite beverage. Cool off...