Charades

I mime a tender

cradling with my arms.

You counter

with a backward

slap to the air.

I stoop to tie

my shoe.

You fling yours

to the wall.

I tap my shoulder

with a flutter

of my hand.

Like encouragement

would. Like any

father should.

You grimace

like your tongue’s

just tasted Kids

from the Sour Patch—

or evading in vain

the press of lips

on lips.

On the day of

your father’s funeral,

one of us

has to mourn,

roll from our side

at the dawn,

prop ourselves up

with a pillow,

feign that we’re ready

to step out

on the stage,

from behind the

shower’s curtain,

as clouds

relinquish their grief,

globules

by the billions,

the rapping

of their water

on our roof,

like applause

from the freshly dead

who know they’re not.

Andreas Gripp

January 14, 2025

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