Mesopotamia, or Shoeless in the Desert

The most senseless

faux pas

life ever made

was heaving itself to land.

Its sands that bore our

serpents.

Fish are never thirsty.

Fins have never felt

a crucifixion. Or hangnails

lasting weeks. The wrench

of aging backs—while

pulling up their socks.

Each one with its

holes the shape of bubbles.

We were all better off in the

sea. No partition of the waters.

Clods with a nuclear

code. Everything was sushi.

The octopus? A spider

who changed her mind.

Floating in the deep

as if the heavens; starfish

for its suns. No more sulking

in a corner with its silk.

Twiddling its many thumbs.

Forgetting it could sew itself

some threads; pause its naked

days; like some suddenly

bashful primates—tramping to a

tailor’s for a fitting; somewhere

beyond the fruit where rivers kiss.

Andreas Gripp

March 28, 2026

RF Photo