Daft by Grace Marie Grafton

She believes in prayer. Or, not exactly believes, but prays anyway, daily. Says, “Please spare me ever having to paint my toenails chartreuse or shave my head.” Touches her gold ring (daily), picturing increase not exactly in the form of gold coins but maybe a bank error in her favor. Holds up her arthritic thumb to the thunderstorm, says, “Come on, Lightning, you’re already in my joints, just hit me one from the outside and I’ll be healed.” Her lover waves his hand between her thumb and the sky, hoping to break the connection. They both understand: power is not predictable nor is luck. Each day she asks, “Where do I go from here?” though she doesn’t know her directions. She’s referring more to whether she hangs out with the redwood, the computer, B.B. King or the lawnmower. Mostly her garden is volunteer, she’s glad the arugula she planted in seasons past continues to reseed itself. The salad of her days, her nights’ rootedness, her lover’s redolence, bees’ articulated hive.


Grace Marie Grafton is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Jester from Hip Pocket. Recent poems appear in basalt, Sin Fronteras, and Pirene’s Fountain. She has taught with CA Poets in the Schools.