Monday, May 14, 2012


You say it every week,
    we all have grace to share.
       I don't,
  and I know it,
 but still you say it and insist it and look right at me,
     disappointed when I don't "share my grace."

     You won't believe me,
 I know you won't, 
because I look good.
     I'm not pierced or inked up;
        there's no baby-belly revealing promiscuity.
I talk and walk and dress right, and you do not know
              there is no grace here.

I am an empty well,
    a fruitless tree,
 an unwalled garden.
I give a promise
    of worth, of blessing, of beauty,
 but I am helpless to deliver.

      I know what this means.
It means the Gardener will cut me off,
   and burn me up.
 I don't want that
        (who does?)
    but wanting is not changing.
It is my emotions that are all wrong,
         and I don't know how to change them.

There is no grace here.
              And I fear
                    there never will be.

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