The Auricle

Do not stoop

and whisper your affections to

my ear. Don’t stroke my bearded

chin like I’m a cat, 3 ½

feet away, expect a murmur

like a purr when we’re

in public.

You told me years

ago: I don’t do the PDA.

Even fingers inter-

twined

will give us both away.

Displays are for the window,

the mannequins all a-twist

at Rowland Macy’s—

faceless, unable to hear

the rabble’s lame guffaw—

in order to sell some

harebrained

Hasbro thing, dots the size

of planets to a child—a yellow

that’s Venusian, red for adjoining

Mars, the Earth in

green & blue;

how your neighbour

took advantage

in the guise of

innocence—

his hands were on my ass

and I was seven—

aware I think that touch

is something spotted

from the heavens,

not confided to the helix,

where lobes are pricked

& nothing’s ever-sweet

or left unsaid.

Andreas Gripp

October 7, 2025

RF Image