List
that contains
the infractions
of the
woman
You place it squarely down
next to her potter's wheel.
The clay coats her dry hands.
The skin splitting open
to reveal
the blood.
She thinks
hard about the cracks in
her days.
You think,
too
about your days:
about your Sunday best
when you skim
those words,
thinking:
"How could she?"
And the spirit
answers:
"Grace, you, grace."