The Brush

You lament the amount

of hair that’s on your

brush, say it’s more

than what is left

upon your head.

More grey than chestnut

brown. More teeth

on your fine-tooth

comb

than inside your gaping

mouth.

That even the eyes

of potatoes

see better than yours.

You can only

eat them mashed,

using too much

salt and heifer’s milk,

drinking more

than you did as a babe.

I test its temperature

on my wrist—

never too hot or too cold.

You say your mother

did the very same

thing , refusing to

elucidate

whether you or she

wore diapers at the time,

that horrible sign

the too young

and too old

are prisoners—within this

St. Vitus’ dance,

like the one

in the high school gym,

pinned against its

wall

like an aster

before the pluck,

aiming to keep

your petals to yourself,

the seeds from the

wind

that scatters them

abroad, into soil

that is bound

to meet itself, 

as a circle pre-

ordains,

where everything’s

the middle and the

end, beginnings

like the sorrow

of Barber’s

Adagio, 

the one the DJ

chose to play

before he went outside

to smoke, our feet

abruptly rooted

in the floor,

our tongues

unable to move

within the awkward blush

of youth, when we think

that we’ve escaped our

impuissance, 

thought ourselves immune

to every torment

yet to come.

Andreas Gripp

January 12, 2025

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