Misericordia

by Kara Applegate

The old fool shambled
up to the gate each night
while even St. Peter dozed,
holding his pitchfork
like a spare pen. He looked
nothing like the other
angels with their many faces,

so I whispered scripture
through the bars and
fancied I saw his horns
shortening. Our little secret.

God’s office, when he
summoned me, was smaller
than expected. He told me
to be careful, to call his extension
anytime, and that the globe
on his desk was a gift.

That night, I found the bars
bent back, the space
underneath big enough
for someone to slip through.
The pitchfork lay outside, looking
smaller on the dirt.

---

Kara Applegate lives and writes in Salem, Massachusetts. They hold an MA in Theological Studies from Princeton Seminary, and their manuscript "On Certain Mornings" was awarded first runner-up in the 2018 National Federation of State Poetry Societes' College Undergraduate Poetry Competition. At the moment, their poetic interests include exploring queer embodiment and cultivating a sense of place in the midst of climate change. This is their first publication.