Kingdom Come

When it's finished, and I have regained
the present, the bedroom recomposing
itself around the pulpy grapefruit-colored
air of first light, of not quite May,
each atom briefly discernible as herself, a daughter
separate from her scheming family, each dizzy
planet plucked from her refractory solar system
and singularly loved before retrograde;
when myself has been returned to herself,
and I have emerged from that closed-eyed
kingdom of spit and jerk, the emergency
over, called off, the ambulance delivered
to the station sedated, empty, disappointed,
the dumbfounded stadium of my body being
rebuilt, panting bulldozer, conveyor belt
of sodium and tablespoon of bleach;
then I ask what other women blinking awake
alone in this apartment building? How
many fluid ounces filling this spilt city?
What other illegible autographs drying
invisible across our exhausted chests?
Exactly what kind of mercy is this?