Pastѐque, or The Glory of Nonchalant

As we sit upon a bench

in Reynolds' Park, you say

that I’m indifferent to your

pain. Your neuropathy. Autistic

bloody savant. Your ability to hit

the upper C.

No, my love. Indifference

are the waves which lap

the ship, the fish who see

flotilla cast around. They turn and

swim away. Eyes agape

at plankton, who clearly don’t

give a shit.

Indifference is posting

my lunch on Instagram,

while those in Jabālyā, starve.

My chateaubriand, merlot.

Indifference are the melons

of Palestine. Grown for another

master. The soldier who chomps

beyond its green/white skin. Its red of

sweet and plenty. Its countless,

spitted seed.

Andreas Gripp

October 1, 2025

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