Say forgive,
and I’ll hand you
back your shawl.
A poor man’s
partial blanket. As
if your shoulders
needed comfort
above the rest. Heat
should never be so
half-a-glass. Only
full is full.
Say friendship,
and we’ll gift your
scarf to the home-
less. Well, really just
a single unhoused
person.
It will remind them
of their mother,
who swathed it
like an ophidian
round their neck—
before they tramped out-
side to play. Make a
fortress out of white.
Throw snowballs
to the wind—
when no one came
to join them in the
battle.
Now speak of love
in sighs, lest anyone
else should hear. Take
the toque from the top
of your head (which never
really fit). I’ll wear it
now it’s stretched.
Enough to shield
my brows
when it is stormy.
Yank it
over my eyes
if I should see you
in the future.
Sheltered from the
reminder that we
trudged in knee-deep
drift. Our mittens hand-
in-hand, boots that fused
in sync, stomping to
some sun we thought
assured us
eternal warmth.
Andreas Gripp
February 9, 2025
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