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 -

it’s as if she comes only when she’s bored.

But, he reminds me, we’ve sworn to stop resisting the

zillion variables beyond our control, 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 my digitally-privileged husband

should not punch down with his five-fingered fist,

and I’m complaining again, angry at an Ugly Sky

of Leering Gods who stick warts on genitals, drop hail

on outdoor weddings, cause anaphylaxis to nuts and such,

compel married men to whistle loudly 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;

instead, this poem is about how you must clasp

your hypocrisies like you clasp your own hand,

squeeze your contradictions into a fist that must

occasionally unfurl to receive, better yet, to give —

and though we’re told the binary doesn’t exist,

I lament, my heart beats in black and white.

“The Left,” my husband grouses,

sun ripping through the leaden sky.