Robson, Professor of English

My prof has graded

my love poem with an F.

Adding a little minus

just to cauterize the wound.

You need to write of red

without its metaphor for blood.

It was a simple

rope of ribbon, stuccoed

to the ceiling when she left.

A belt I knotted

destined for my denims.

Note the sag &

bag of jeans. That stupid Keto

diet did me in. Not the

too-despaired-to-eat.

The rib cage that arises

with the fluxing of

the flesh

has nothing to do with love.

I think my prof’s

led a sheltered life. Never eyed

a child interred in

Anishinabek ground.

The wail of a West

Bank widow to the wind.

What would-have-been

Trayvon’s birthday if

the gun had thought him

white. None of this is love.

His sinistral

has been ringless

all his life. Never had to tug

his wedding band. Bathe

it under water so his

finger finds its breath.

Love will find

a million ways to choke.

What saves you from

the ledge can also sway

you back & forth.

No one blames the chair—

it’s what held you up. 

The only lee of love

we kick away.

Andreas Gripp

February 22, 2026

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