Armée du salut

The problem

after funerals

is the cleansing,

the closets of

donations

never dropped

at Sally Ann.

Montreal: a trinity

of peaks in

le soleil—a pulsing

Ville Marie. Catholic

to the core.

The reason I never visit

is the French; my F

and ADD.

There’s the usual

that’s unearthed—the catalogue

from Eaton’s, Christmas cards

discarded, the bag of

socks with holes—

je le ferai demain

she’d always say;

and the razor

once electric

till it failed,

there between the sneakers.

I remember the

sound of velcro

being tugged, then ripped

like a week-old

bandage, a wound that’s

never scabbed.

At least a scar

would say

you loved me,

even through today:

my yanking

tufts of grass

in settled sod,

its alveoli

18 inches down,

no lawnmower

to be had, dead

as everything

else, the realtor

wants her sign

up noon tomorrow,

like mom

to my lice-teemed

hair—the only way to

kill ‘em

she would snap,

then allay me with her

beam, my fear that

I’d stay bald, like a tree

bereft of leaves

in late November,

yet to envisage

the wrens & unfurling

green.

Andreas Gripp

September 17, 2025

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