wash here. i crowd last night’s dinner
plates, cups, spoons coated in grease and leftover chicken
down deep in the soapsuds like a baptismal font.
between the scrub, rinse, dry–
silence eats into the back corners,
recites all of the caked mess life spattered
all over my heart, or worse, i did to myself.
i need to be clean too. with feeble words
heart murmurs, stir up the old woman lies
dunk them in the purifying water–
come out forgiven, new.
This month, we will begin a series of poems on grace. I’m looking forward to spending time contemplating this idea in poetry.