She sits on top of a mountain, crosses
her legs and
bounces a free foot in the air,
fields are barren in the valley
below, skin cracked and broken
pot-bellied kids wail, a ferociousness
not even a mother can stem.
She blows hot air to the heavens,
tossing the clouds
drags painted fingernails across the
scorched earth, gauging it like a
checkerboard.
Fat drops fall from the sky
torrents of rain, rivers flow down the
mountain, filling the
cracks and crevices.
She bangs her cymbals, cries through
the night
   and when
dawn breaks,
the sun’s blushing rays bounce off
newborn ponds and lakes,
streams meander, smiling at the
running
   children, their laughter
separating and connecting life,
mercy to the earth yet again.

Described by Epistemic Literary as “stunning,” Her Name is Grace is one of my favourite pieces. Rewritten when everything in the world felt dark and heavy during Fall 2023, I needed to close off and breath and find a moment of grace. Thanks to Roi Faineant who picked it up to publish, and to Epistemic Literary who called it “the one that got away.” Humbled by the kind words.