Grace
Our hands tackle
each other.
They do not know
grace
in any of its
meanings.
They batter over the
blanket
that joins and
divides us.
We grip and tug the
thick warm thing.
Each of us wants
sole ownership.
Each of us sees no
“us”
but only an
“I,”
an ego afraid of the
cold
without the quilt
our mother gave to us.
During our din and
altercation she appears,
just like a saint in
a medieval painting
or a blue-hued
Madonna—ethereal.
She’s all stained-glass
color
and with her
hymn-tone voice she implores.
It’s peace she
desires—pax, pace, whatever—
our dear, deceased
mother,
alive, a live
hallucination,
the imagined
abruptly real.
The blanket drops
from our hands.
Our fingers clasp
each other’s
in fright, in
prayer,
in a communion of
shame and forgiveness.
The next day, our
outstretched arms
offer the blanket to
a homeless man
we’ve known for eons
who huddles in
doorways
and peacefully waits for blessings.
and peacefully waits for blessings.