Embryonics

Potential

is overrated.

It’s the flip-

side of what is

possible,

the call of

tails and heads;

looking so

pendulous—

leaving you

embittered

by its dangle.

It’s the fetus

in the womb that

might have made it—

lost in a clumsy

tumble down the stairs.

It births your

feeling guilty,

for failing

to make the grade,

for bringing forth

your parents’

disappointment,

forever shrouded

in the umbra

of another.

It’s the tease of

what-can-be—

if the ducks

are all aligned

in a carnie's

game of chance;

the fifty-fifty

pluck

of she loves me,

loves me not;

the toss of

luck and sevens,

the dots of their

constellations,

overlooking pines

that scale the sky,

as if they long

to kiss the stars;

or the poem which

craves to lift itself

to reach

the crescent moon,

rest its weary

hat upon its hook.

Andreas Gripp

August 12, 2024

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