Strange Grace

for Marina Tsveteyeva

It seems this is the life
I was born to,
no money to speak of, but
conversations with friends
that jangle like new coins
in my pocket.
In the fish queue,
I notice the hem of my skirt
is coming apart,
my careful stitching unravelling
like the threads of a life.
This is how it is,
bad days followed by one
that is good.
And how to understand the difference?
But slowly I think,
and by some strange grace
something changes within me, allowing
the small hard knot
of fate to open,
admitting a half-light
to warm this small patch
of earth so that,
even as my blue hand turns
another potato for the knife
something unspoken
is illuminated