On the Inefficacy of Worship

Deity is forever above us.

Yahweh & Allah,

Jehovah’s triune face,

the path of Zeus and Brahma,

souped amid the ocean’s

doppelgänger.

The sun and moon the

first to grace our incense.

I tell you gravity

must be God—

with its power to imprison,

pulling down our missiles,

every feathered wing

that comes in pairs.

Then the satellites

stuck in orbit—fated to

flame & plunge.

And Earth is

but a trifling.

Long ago we trembled

if an asteroid

had been yanked from

outer space—smashing

like a boulder into brick—

a palace left still standing

albeit scarred.

We’ve crowned our would-be

kings, called Tyrannosaurus

Rex. But consider he was felled—

by that which had been

slayed by magnetic

attraction.

For even Sol 

is forced to round

a galactic navel—

engrossed by its whirl of

veils. And our star is a

jealous idol, scorching

every mortal

drawing near.

The Catholics

carry Mary

heedfully—lest they trip 

upon the pavement—

her statue to be strewn

in Virgin blue. Deeper than the

skies. And there’s nothing

more unpleasant than

a woman who’s been

disdained—

inadvertently or not.

I think of the scorner’s

plight: falling to his knees,

the fear he feels

as her shadow

scales the walls, emerging

from the pit with

all its fury.

Andreas Gripp

February 23, 2026

Filippo Monteforte / Getty Images