Now I know what heals us

for Chaya Rose Gordon

It was the air above a vacant lot

before lightning strikes,

a theater, before the show.

It was pleasurably empty,

like Sunday afternoon.

The crowds cleared the stands;

the school cheer hung in the air;

the last words spoken

didn’t bear repeating;

the old friends stood smiling;

the telephone didn’t ring.

The light entered the forest

without drama, a slow cessation

of cloudcover,

like all history swept away.

The blinking baptism so commonplace

we miss it and keep pushing,

like oxen, accustomed to the weight.

But grace comes

after a cacophony of desires—

it comes after a leveraging of sly schemes that don’t work.

It comes when the nerves are stretched thin,

like an old climbing rope.

It comes to those perched

on the precipice,

for one reason or another.

It comes not like lightning,

but like a rush of wings.