Through the night Grace lives by fire.
She sings to it, she reads it poetry,
she knits and rocks and nods and…

she found no reason for it setting there, the poems
not improved by poet’s name?

I’ve gone up-rivers to get rid of them
where I dispatch fish. The family
will say this is a lie

I think of other women,
how some are beautiful, and do not know it;
how most are not, and know;