Grace

Grace is the egret, whose legs stream behind
like thin ropes when flying, whose thick
white tendril of neck curls back. They are beings
of another world of  blue. When they land,
they are different birds altogether
(as grace must become different
when it alights upon earth)
their legs snap into angles for stalking.
    We’re told Grace has something
    to do with mercy,
and those legs, in their stalking, their military
finesse, and the plunge of the head
into murky waters, and the frog in the beak,
four legs jerking on either side.
How hard to keep looking.
The little frog legs, the little legs twitching. Feebly,
now, like a beetle’s, stuck on its back. And now
the bird’s swift slug and the lump in the throat.
    How hard to keep looking, as it is hard
    to look the beggar in the eyes,
even if we fill his cup.
Grace is the egret, whose legs stream behind
like thin ropes when flying.
Now the egret has caught a green-yellow fish: glinting,
sparkling, as the thick muscle of its body thrashes.
    It is hard to keep looking. It is hard
    to look, as it is hard to look at our meat
    before the first bite, and imagine,
    for a moment, the great beast
    it once was, how it lived.
Whip-whip, glinting, and the egret tries to swallow,
scarlet on the beak, but the fish won’t hold still.
    It is hard to keep looking, as it is hard
    to stare at the photos in the papers,
    of the cities we’ve destroyed,
    the twisted faces of grief.
Grace is the egret, whose legs stream behind
like thin ropes when flying.
Or maybe, grace is the act of looking when
when the head wants to turn. Grace in the sky,
and grace on earth: on earth, sometimes, it is
wanting the truth, and this, a small act of mercy.

© Jennie Wrisley 2010