Because grace shows her face at random,
with no foreshadowing or prayer on my part,
I’m terrified of her, I tell my husband on a walk
where we do the bulk of our complaining.
It’s terrible, to want something so unpredictable -
it’s as if she comes only when she’s bored!
But we’ve sworn to stop resisting the zillion
variables beyond our control, he reminds me,
since we quickly tire of our own voice,
so let this lamentation be lightened by a joke:
“What is the Left’s favorite snack?”
But I’m in no mood since I’ve lost a thumb
to the punchline, and I’m complaining again,
angry at an Ugly Sky of Leering Gods
that wart genitals, rain on bouffants,
compel married men to whistle while tuna
casserole bubbles in the microwave at work.
But this poem is not what you think it is,
and it is not about who you think it is about -
it’s about how grace must fail
more than she succeeds
or you would not sigh with relief
when things got better.
‘The Left,’ my husband grouses,
his face burnished gold
by the sudden afternoon light
ripping through a leaden sky.