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 most of our complaining.

It’s uncomfortable, to want something so unpredictable,

like she comes only when she's bored.

But, he says, we’ve sworn to stop protesting the infillion

variables beyond our control, since we quickly tire

of our own voices, 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 now I’m complaining again, angry at an Ugly Sky

of Leering Gods, who make warts on noses,

rain for outdoor weddings and anaphylaxis to nuts

and such, compels 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 is about how grace must fail more than she succeeds

or you would not sigh when things were suddenly better,

or imagine a benevolent god, instead this poem

is about how you must clasp your ironies

like you clasp your own hand, squeeze

your contradictions and anger and sureties

into a tight little fist that must

occasionally unfurl to receive, better

yet to give — and though we’ve been told

the binary is nonexistent, I inform

my husband, who I’ve silenced,

the heart beats in black and white.