Epiphany

All of us are

smitten by the cute.

And the shine of

symmetry. The clear, un-

blemished skin

of stunning’s layer.

I could sing

each varied note of

your cantata. In

its proper key. Something

that’s beyond

my scratchy throat.

My wineless inhibition.

You say the sweetest

intonation

was from a haggard

in the alley,

bottle on its side

beside her feet—bare,

sniffed out by a rat’s

consuming hunger:

Mama take me with you.

Reach down with your hands,

gently tickle like you did.

I remember when I laughed.

Now replace that

newborn kitten

with a shoe. A soiled,

baby’s boot

found in a slum.

Fractured by a

wheel that wasn’t

looking.

Cradle it in your palms.

Mouth it a lullaby.

Know nothing

is so broke

it can’t be loved.

Andreas Gripp

October 20, 2025

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