Sacrifices

The times I plop the ketchup

on spaghetti

I do it for you.

The smack of a newborn’s

bottom after birth.

But it doesn’t flow like

blood as Catelli would.

The Smucker’s upon

the leaning heap of

flapjacks? Ones that

swell in our skillet

like pregnancy? Jam

is half the cost of

maple syrup.

I also keep in mind

the thawing trees—

so they can share their sap

instead with the tots of nature.

I know you think I’m

stingy. That the reason

I’m pouring water on our

daily Franken Berry

is that milk’s gone up again.

You don’t buy my line

that I’ve gone vegan,

that cows are the cause

our “cheese” is bland tofu.

Not the mini-mart’s

2-for-1.

Darling, if I hadn’t

nipped the nickels

we would have never been

adrift upon our boat—

the one you called a raft, befitting

Gilligan, amid our off-

season vacay in

Chesapeake Bay,

your assumption I thought it

Cheapskate, regifting

you my mother’s

rosary, something made of wood in

lieu of pearls, saved

for the birth of our

babe who never was;

every bead a prayer,

every kiss my hailing

of your grace.

Andreas Gripp

December 7, 2025

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