I believe in grace. I believe in the blackmarket 

currency of the unknown: 

fresh pennies in deepsea caves and the 

dream that loiters, oblique.

I believe in the weave and heft

 of the small things we mostly neglect

 to see: dandelion and anemone and relentless 

ant. I believe in the mercy of solitude and the 

kindness of trees. I believe in dancing 

with its wide faith, its surrender to the 

body’s malted hungers. I believe we are all 

waiting out the race, even as our legs 

collapse beneath us our eyes scour the 

heavens for evidence of what 

we know and have known and 

will again forget. I believe in grace.

“Grace,” Marisa Handler
The Penwood Review

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I believe in grace. I believe in the blackmarket currency of the unknown: fresh pennies in deepsea caves and the dream that loiters, oblique.

I believe in the weave and heft of the small things we mostly neglect to see: dandelion and anemone and relentless ant. 

I believe in the mercy of solitude and the kindness of trees. I believe in dancing with its wide faith, its surrender to the body’s malted hungers. 

I believe we are all waiting out the race, even as our legs collapse beneath us our eyes scour the heavens for evidence of what we know and have known and will again forget. 

I believe in grace.

“Grace,” Marisa Handler
The Penwood Review