Phobia

This poem has nothing to

do with my fear of flying—

although it easily could.

I sense everything from the

ground. There’s a reason we

call it Earth. Latin’s Terra 

if you will. Dhulka in Somali.

Ojibwe’s Ni Mama Akii.

This poem is not of soil

but of birds. Of wing &

worm & seed. Check that—

even the worms are spared.

The man in the maga hat

has hollered speak English

or go back home! His middle

finger rises like a drawbridge.

His world is hedged in hate.

The couple at the table

have been trading Te amo. Sharing a

shake between them.

A mother in the park will

sway her infant like a

hammock. Cradles like an

otter & her pup. Her hijab

ingests the light. What is the

idiom for this? Love is its own

eternal tongue.

I’m at the See the Stars for

Free at the planetarium. Every

seat’s inhabited—as if Aaliyah

has returned to sing of heaven.

The children gape in awe.

Every pigmentation

paints the aether. Nebulae are

in labour, birthing life from death.

Almost like a God. Such is the stretch

of creation. Nothing need ever be said.

There’s no alphabet we can

conjure in the hospice. The kiss on a

belovѐd’s brow. The calm of clasping

hands—synonyms have been lacking

for this silence—the gasp that’s

lifted skyward, the crack in a

peeling ceiling, the glory by our

side betwixt our breath.

Andreas Gripp

August 19, 2026

photograph: Satnam Film / Pexels