Grace

Grace holds no book
by Rimbaud. She clutches the Bible
into sleep and dreams
of Jesus. I don't know why
this girl raised by church summer camps
was there at the house show
where everyone was drinking wine
out of Solo cups and howling
old soul songs to the piano.
Her drunk cousin had brought her there,
who grabbed my ankle and put her head
in my lap, but I was more interested
in Grace. I'd always wanted to meet
a girl named Grace and she introduced herself
apologizing for the blonde who was getting pissed
because all the boys went for her cousin.
We left her on the floor to do
the Twist and, with her best innocent
shrug, Grace told me about
her frilly underwear waiting
in a drawer for her husband. She pulled me in
and breathed in my ear she was married
to Jesus.

She confessed she'd left a fiance
here on earth spun
into dementia from a bomb
hidden under the sand of Iraq.
She cried when she walked out
of the Institution for the last time and
even though she's married now
to a strong handsome boy
and they will go swing dancing
every Thursday until they die
in the same breath, she cries
every time she thinks about
that thing she had to give up
which she never really wanted,
the mistake she was pardoned
from making. It's her duty
to feel guilty. This is what love looks like
to God. She's sweet.
Her name is Grace.