The First Time

There’s a moment

when you’re grieving

you forget.

It’s the quarter-

second glint

when you peek up at

the solstice; your first

banana sundae

since it happened. The

stain that’s on your T-

shirt once you’re home—

it hadn’t been washed

since …

You’ll catch

yourself in chuckles

from the sitcom in her

cache—

this isn’t the time for Netflix—

that pang of guilt

that judges with its wig:

how dare you play

at happy.

The first time you’ll

awake it’s

slipped your mind—

albeit for a splinter of

a breath. Today we’re—

The first dream’s worst of

all. Your belovѐd

lives & waits

upon a bench

down by the brook. The

apogee of hair still

there. Every wing of

bird is lingering

with her. You have to recall the

one that is her namesake:

the lark we christened Barbra.

You remember she dropped the

e—between the 2nd

b & r. It never makes a sound

so what’s the point? What you

can’t elicit—even by a

welling in the iris—

is how it takes to heaven—

the instant twigs

beneath your shoe are

cracked in two.

This is a poem of bones

and not of beauty.

How brittle they become

once the marrow’s

been usurped. A snap  

that’s not forsaken

despite the volume set

to max on her favourite

song. You put one foot past

the other but not in

dance. For how can you

think to frolic? You’re

only wiping dishes—the plate on

which she slurped her

final crumbs, while you stood

amid the gloam & feigned a smile.

Andreas Gripp

June 20, 2026

Jose Luis Pelaez / Getty Images