Shelby Platt

What I'm learning about grace and mercy

It comes when least expected

and does not give a reason,

but puts a finger to my lips,

although there are no words left in me.

It is as irrefutable and beautiful as

a summer storm, powerful enough

to wash away what was and

leave sweet, clean air in its wake.

I don’t deserve this, I confess

to the abundant rain. Thunder chortles

back: you think you have anything

to do with this? It is a gift.

Lightning strikes in the distance,

and a warm wind dries the rain

and tears off my face. Okay,

I whisper, as the storm rolls over me.

Dwelling places

1. My farm

I want to go home. To where wind flutters

through hayfields like murmuring

starlings. Where the sky stretches

like a parachute from the infinite

edges of the horizon, tied to

the mountains that cradle us

in the valley’s nest. Where I feel

as though if I dug my toes, fingers,

and forearms into the warm soil,

it would be like putting on my own

skin; it would be like breathing. Except

I have sat there, feet on the earth,

as gold plates the cliffside, cows

my only companion, and felt

a hollow.

2. My people

Home is my dad, who always picks up

my calls, fixes my car, and never

raises his voice. It’s my best friend

who tells me about her scabs, and isn’t ashamed

to cry next to me, either. It’s when I stop worrying

about what I’ll eat because my mom

always has dinner on the stove. It’s the friends

for whom I pray and record in my journal,

in the corners of my mind, on the walls of my heart.

Home is silently typing beside my roommate,

my friend kicking my feet under the table,

my feet curled under a blanket, beside my sisters

on the couch. Home asks how I’m feeling.

But always, there’s something

aching.

     3. My future

Home is a kingdom that hasn’t arrived,

but I see it sometimes, in the eyes

of a stranger/sister, or a brick of wisdom spoken

in love, or thrown at my head.

It’s in each sunrise that dusts the streets

with gold. Invisible, but coming, here,

but still dawning. Home is not yet

where everyone who has ever been shouted over

or shoved, or stolen from, or shattered,

will be wrapped up and made whole.

And that deep ache that has echoed

since birth from the cave of your chest

will be filled. Home is almost a fairytale.

A hope to get me through the day. I don’t

really know what it’s like at all.

    4. My God

So close, He hears my heart whisper

before I do. Here, I can rest. I hide

under the cover of His wings, and breathe

in the familiar smells of home: mercy,

wet earth after the rain, patience, the

first daffodil of spring, joy, my grandad’s

birthday pie, baking in the oven.

I look up in the middle of the day, back

tweaked, toes blistered, heart tangled, and

He’s here. I’m home. Already. Home

is the end of each day when I sit down

and we talk. Sometimes, it leaves me

chest fluttering, mind soothed, soul

stilled— and sometimes, I go to sleep,

still reaching out for something

warm to wrap my arms around.