She used to talk about grace

Mother used to talk about grace
as if it were soap in the sink, the longest
piece of licorice, a thimble. She said
it never went hungry. She talked
about it when she was angry, she
said that was when it wanted
to come out. I thought it a monster
that would eat the whole house,
I use to pray it would pass over me.
She said it hid in things and would
surprise. I checked under my bed,
checked my shoes,
held my belly-- found nothing
in the cracks, in the space. I thought
her crazy. She used to talk about
grace like hand-me-downs, like
east and west, like buckets
of wine in the basement.
I saw it as a washcloth, on the
clothesline-- occasionally dripping,
fading in the sun.