Grace, Fallen from. Marianne Boruch

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      NICE

      I can be nice. I can put my body

      flat, down straight, and pull

      sleep from somewhere deep

      in the brain, that no-weather

      thing, that blank page-

      after-page thing. I can be

      nice enough and say nothing, drift

      to the cool room under

      a blanket, under all the things

      I have to do. Count them. Count

      forward or backward: glue

      broken things, fill the feeder,

      work for a living, make supper, go

      anxious unto guilty unto

      anxious, full circle. I can love

      humankind. I can do that.

      I can close my eyes on the bright

      windows my neighbors have

      framing their big TVs. I can understand.

      I can be nice when others decide, steeling

      myself, but not as well as my tiny

      grandmother did, the tallest person

      in the room for a moment. I can, mostly,

      drive past Burger King, its Good Luck

      Staci (oh, Stacy with an i!) We Miss You!

      on whatever the marquee’s

      called now, be touched and sweetened

      or nice enough not to notice. And bite

      my tongue. Good doggy. Be nice now, be

      nice. I can sacrifice muscle

      and bone to sit longer, showing

      interest (show interest, my mother warned

      as we walked through any really large

      set of doors). I know German has

      a word, nett, for nice. I can put myself

      in that net, drop down so close

      to what is underwater

      that the fish know me as small,

      silent, as sleek and shiny as

      they happen to be. And so

      weightless there, blue

      beyond thought. One would hardly

      guess how nice it is, those fish

      suspended next to me, their mouths

      opening and closing.