Ashbury Park

The Holy Land is

nowhere near

Jerusalem. Dear Abrahamic

faiths—I am truly

sorry. Your shrouds once white

now claret

have stamped you null

& void. I get the jar of

sand you’ve cached is

thought to be a blessing.

That you’ve waded in the

Jordan, vowed to never

wash again. Like the very

first brush you felt

from a beloved crush. The ground

on which they tread—

roped off in your mind

with a silver plaque. No,

make that gold. There are seldom

second bananas

that are entombed in

sacred places. Every peel in compost

lives again, sharing

what it’s learned. Otherwise

what’s the point? No one’s

resurrected

so they fuck up yet again.

Take the daughter of

Jairus for instance.

There are some who swear they’ve

seen her south of Trenton. Gifting

a quilted blanket to a mongrel.

Receiving but a bark

as recompense.

You ask me why

the skin of trees is such.

It makes no canine yelp—

while we whittle our

initials in its flesh. Attesting

to puppy love—its sexless

innocence. I’ll never

love anyone else.

This is what is hallowed:

uplifting one in

burka along the beach.

Her innards sheared by

shrapnel. Your Magen David

a pendulum in a clock. Knowing

the time is short—there’s no one

who will flip the hour-

glass. Its grains from a strand in

Jersey.

They say Phoebe Cates

was there in ’82, a

9-year-old’s passing

fancy; that her footprint

on the shore

has yet to be

swept away. Such

is the persnickety

whim of tides. Deciding

what is chosen, who is pulled

into the gulf, spat back like

a half-digested Jonah—

cheeky in his quarrel

with the Lord. All of it

eclipsing

godly borders.

I’ve enshrined

a shard of driftwood

in an urn. Spewed from

the Hudson River. You

gasped amid a gander

it’s a bone!

Child, what’s

the difference? I’ll hold it

to my finger

in the morning. Set them both

alight. You’ll choose

what speaks of sun

with squinting eyes.

Tell me

which-is-which

amid the ash. Blow your

breath upon them, watch

them rise together

in Hoboken, like the wish

of milky seedlings

spurned as weed.

Andreas Gripp

April 20, 2026

RF Photograph