Language Lessons

You muttered under

your breath I’m stupido,

as though I’m too dumb

to know what it means.

While I grew up in Little

Italy, you say I’m being

fallacious: it’s in the English-

Zimbabwean Phrasebook

that you tossed in the

Goodwill hamper, citing

my fear of flying, the native

Gaboon Vipers;

that it’s clearly

a compliment—synonymous

with a learnѐd genius,

sketching rockets to the

spheres; one who solves the

mystery of Holmes and

pi—to the octillionth

decimal—saying I was right

this entire time about

Colonel Mustard, you’re my

Watson on the side,

in awe of the way I’ve filled

the pepper shaker; in spite of

the crafted S

along its holes,

that the folks at Royal

Doulton got it wrong,

that your eggs have never

been so delectable; 

and the specks

of black like cinders? They

bring out

their sunny side,

help you purge

the sneeze whose time has

come, as loud as Mama

Leone’s, whose roof

I swore had launched

up to the cosmos

long ago.

Andreas Gripp

October 7, 2025

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