An Addendum to Your Will

You balk at

being buried

beside your dad.

That’s not how you rot!

You start with the feet

and work your way up!

It began with the way

you spun your metal top:

Push down harder, boy!

You’re doing it like a girl!

Then how embarrassingly

long you stayed on training

wheels: I never wore a helmet!

The kids across the street

don't put 'em on!

A daughter would have

been better. She’s the

prettiest girl in the world.

His only critique

the way you would’ve

danced. Not on your soles

but your toes.

Birling like a cygnet

on the stage,

his prima ballerina,

the one you saw as a

son in the music box,

pointing it out

in the shop, his dragging you

by the scruff to where

the GI Joes were stacked,

one with a “life-like beard,”

bristled & coarse like his;

accessories not included

though you’d get ‘em—

a pair of militia fatigues,

canteen and M16,

a grenade that fit in the

palm of his pliable hand.

Andreas Gripp

December 29, 2025

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