Ruby Red

Grandma ate her

grapefruit

over the sink,

taking her

husband’s advice,

saying it kept the

squirts

from messing up the

walls & kitchen table.

And today, from stinging

her jaundiced eyes.

The peel

looking back

at her in kindship.

After grandpa

passed away—

died—she mutters in

tart correction,

she began to devour

everything in

the very same way:

her tuna &

tomato

on a crusty, whole

wheat toast, every

single crumb

caught in the basin,

spaghetti

and the splatter of

its sauce,

washed into her

pipes with Baileys Cream—

both organic, inorganic ;

saving on the drudgery

of dishes, the silence

of wash & dry—

the only living thing

they’d do together—

and now she’s there

between the lines

of blemished blinds,

window that’s

alight

to the evening

world, hunched over

like Quasimodo,

furrowed lips which

stretch

below the chrome

of a dripping

faucet,

one that cleanses all

that’s spilled and

fallen,

one lonely

lamentation

at a time.

Andreas Gripp

March 17, 2025

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