Considering Goya, or Why I Gave Up Long-Distance Running

I’ll stop before the start, its lines

ubiquitous, knowing I can never

catch my breath, no matter how

it waits around the bend,

faithful as an umbra

under sun;

or the other excuse I hold:

the stench of suffered sweat,

laurel of green & glory

to make me itch, weaved like

a crown of thorns

without the thorns—defenders of

the rose, inhale the waft of

angels at your peril—the scratches

aren’t worth it;

or maybe it’s the bullet

that is fired to a blameless

sky—perhaps it pierced a towhee

& we didn’t care—just an interloper

in our race, one wing

broken on the tarmac, the other

with its plumage along

our random demarcation,

the one that greets the

victor, shouting to the loser

it is finished!

Yes, it’s clearly

because of the pistol, the one

that makes me flinch, like the

backfiring of a car, or when I gaze

at Third of May—

hearing nothing but my sigh of

exhalation, a man in white

who's yielded to the muskets—

hands aloft—as if in prayer to

the God of Tongues; the plea of his

stricken eyes, blood of his fellow

Spaniards by his knees, wearied

by pursuit; a hot & thirsty

soil set for more.

Andreas Gripp

October 4, 2026

Francisco Goya, The Third of May 1808