Poem: Borrowed Grace (2001)

or years they have occupied
these same two chairs—
he in the worn-down ancient rocker
with faded blue cushion
and scratches in the wood where the cat has been;
she, curled up like a cat herself
in the rose chintz armchair,
legs tucked beneath skirts.
he is reading about the slaughter of Iphigenia.
she is writing poetry about lighthouses
and ships at sea
and the way the soft sunlight
plays over his hair.
they are drinking tea from china cups
with mismatched saucers
and eating oatmeal current scones
she made herself, as her father did.

they are playing house,
making-believe they are grown up
and that the wild riot of color and sound
which races by every day
outside this peeling rose wallpaper
belongs to them exclusively.
he pretends the world’s secrets are his to discover,
like a hidden pearl.
she pretends that he loves her.

they are living in not-that-kind-of sin,
the sin of not knowing
what you want
and of pretending the way will always be clear,
the sin of faith which is misplaced
and unrecognized.
blindness is the deepest valley,
the worst way someone can be hurt.

she pours him another cup of tea
and goes back to her lighthouses.