The Deviant

The day before you

die there’s nothing to lose.

Not even that

which channels seed.

Everything’s un-

shielded in the end.

There’s a reason

eyes & ears

will come in twos—

even the breasts

you never had

but always wanted.

When they what about

the nose, talk on the

duality of its tunnels.

Inhaling

& exhaling

but in tandem.

The day before you

die you’ll cut your

laundry card in half.

Leave your hamper

to the mice. You’ll saunter

on the speedway

in the cool of your

deathday suit. Yes,

you’ve read that right.

Morticians have witnessed

worse. What is nakedness

juxtaposed—

with those who waste

a perfectly good Armani? After

they’ve been bludgeoned

and their casket’s

primed to close.

The day before you

die is like a starling—

left with a single

wing. Leaping

off its bough

to see what happens.

If the wind can-

not be trusted then who can?

The breath of God must come

with expectations.

Of course I have digressed.

The day before you

die you’ll write a poem

about the day before you

die. Everyone will think

it’s for your mother.

Until they shudder

at the coitus. Your apparent

aberration.

What’s the simile

for a simile? Why does

it look like smile? 

Google Google’s

goo-goo face. Tell

me that is human.

On the day that

you’re to die,

you'll scrawl Madonna’s

Magnificat. Not that

one, the other.

Ascending like a

prayer. To a virgin

who’s been fondled

the very first time.

If you’re unsure of

who is whom, read

the strophe again.

Maybe it’s the last.

Goodbyes can be sexy.

A sunset into ocean

isn’t as chaste as

it may look. We moan

in copulation. Also

when in pain. Throbbing

works both ways. That

rap upon your window

from the neighbour—

assuming love &

woe will differ

when they bleed.

Andreas Gripp

February 25, 2026

Kmatta / Getty Images