after Stephen Dunn
Some women have it,
a neatness of muscle
a way the body has of shifting
so the skin moves over it
like it is extra, a bit of silk
trailing the tough spirit.
I’ve heard it too—Robert Cray’s
voice climbs three notes,
the sound of Cray’s name
suggests grace, cry, ache.
Grace comes at night,
a low voice in the dark scatters
a dream like weed tips,
smooths my mind back
like hair. And grace
climbs inside me too
like a lover or a winter
or blowsy wine, follows
reluctance to its beginning,
bends me to it. Sometimes,
it lifts the sky’s lid
enough that you can know
its goodness in your mouth,
sleep as it drives you down dark
roads in the rain, the radio
on low, grace’s hands
humming on the wheel,
but mostly grace is a hard thing
and it does not look like itself
until it’s done
like the swinging gate your
arm’s become, now that your
lover’s gone
like the way the wind hurts
your dirty teeth, blows
your solitude wide.
I know a woman whose name
is Grace. I lived
in her narrow house
for a time. Her windows
wore gates. The dust licked
her aunt’s teacups. The wood
floors shook. Outside, swampy
trees leaned over cement.
Wet heat draped itself
against us like a dress.
In the kitchen, I watched
the quiet rest, listened
to Grace above me,
in her ceiling-fanned
room, doing what Grace
does when she gets nervous:
rolls Yahtzee dice
on her old desk.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
