Grace Hulderman


picked my teeth out and put

them in matchboxes, Grace-

fully falling down stairs,

off bicycles, into

age nine; sloppy scissor

slice across bangs,

when freckles charted paths

across the nose, cheeks froth-flecked.

Humming, “My grace all sufficient,”

church organ, knees

knocking, pulse swimming.

Can’t sit still at the table,

thinks about dirt and roots

when you’re saying Grace,

mind is a sock turned

inside out. Could never

keep the laundry

folded, Grace.