When I ask how long
we’ve had the
colander, you respond it’s
relatively new.
But I should have
grilled of dates,
not the straining
of water from starch.
The heater in the
bedroom
by the drapes?
Relatively safe
you say, the odds of a
fire starting—relatively
low you add,
as if that brings me
comfort, falling short
of the certainty
of never.
You know me
all too well, somehow sense
what I’m bound to
query,
as if a traveller
through the ins and
outs of time.
We talk of Einstein’s
theory, say Relativity’s
not related
to the odds;
has nothing to do with
nearly, or some phantom
paradox,
and the fact that I despise
my nearby uncle
and his kin?
Relatives are surely
overrated, blood
is thinner than wine,
and the speed of light
will drop you
nowhere fast—
Aunt Petunia’s
birthday party,
the one that’s still to come
in 20 years,
when the guests
will see your visage,
assume that you’ve been
slathered in Olay, beg
to know your secret
to staying young ,
that you’ll keenly
keep us guessing
till the dawn.
Andreas Gripp
January 24, 2025
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