On Eating Ratatouille, or Eulogy for Jill

The funeral home

has banned me

from their parlours.

My saying sorry she expired 

as condolence.

A bag of milk

expires. Dumped into

the drain a

minute after. Whenever

I'm neurotically inclined.

I have given too much

credence to “best before.”

It doesn’t mean it’s

bad you always said—

chowing on the cheese

that even Remy

wouldn’t sniff. Assuring me

the mould in my tortilla

wouldn’t emerge for another

week, from the time

I think it’s died,

the stamped-on date

a mortician’s keen

arrival, orbiting as a vulture

over those who’ve breached the

sand, broiling

beneath the sun

amid their stagger.

You added fungi gives it colour—

the bread, like moss on a log

that’s felled—though past its prime

had vestiges of beauty left to give.

Andreas Gripp

November 24, 2025

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