Grace

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 -

as if she comes only when she’s bored!

But we’ve sworn to stop resisting the million

variables beyond our control, he reminds,

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,

gift the very worst ideas

with bullhorns and zeal.

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 cry 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.