On the day
I pass away,
I’ll say I’m out
for a leisurely
swim.
I’ll be decked
in a scuba
suit, for a corpse
that’s been in the
water
is unsightly
to say the least.
What’s that?
I can barely
do the length
of Ramada’s
pool?
Well that’s the
whole point,
can’t you see?
I will say
I’m off to
Sandusky,
in the warmth
of August
rays. To do it
in the winter
is to suffer
more than once.
Hypothermia
will kill you much
too cruelly.
It’s bad enough
to drown,
to sink to Erie’s
depth,
feigning I’ve always
wanted to spy
some sunken ship-
wreck—ghostly
and forlorn—
I merely forgot
my oxygen
tank, at the cabana
that doesn’t exist,
nor will I,
leaving just this
sotted poem
which I’ll say
was a jocular stunt,
in that eerie,
airless moment
with too much Malbec
in my swig ,
when your mouth
and nose are clogged
with sudden promise,
a vow to never
feel anything again,
that in the
time your favourite
song is done,
there’s nothing but
numbing cold,
drifting in the vacant
deep
like an orb
that’s gone astray,
left the comfort
of its revolving
just to taste
the abiding void,
in a soundless,
inland sea—
that’s wearied
at last
from keeping me
afloat,
all these many, damnable
years I said I loved
the setting sun
upon your shoulders,
how it sank
below the waves
only to do it
all again
some stray tomorrow,
when what we say is
love
are mere magnetic
pulls
from a wretched moon.
©2025 Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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