The Hero

No one’s ever

wrote about a

grape that saves the world.

Sure, in the form of

pinot noir it brings me

joy. Though this

will hardly suffice.

Due to Jesus’

Thursday lamb, it’s gifted

us with chalice, in memory,

shed for you. Carrots

couldn’t cut it.

It’s adept to

gag a villain if

it ever comes to that—

kerplunking down

a gullet. Bond has

turned his nose

and stuck to bullets.

A bunch is Russian

Roulette. Which is seeded?

Which is not? Which is sweet

or tart?

Mother said if

I swallowed a Muscat’s

pip, I’d have fruit inside

my stomach for the

rest of my life.

Such is a branch’s

clout. Watch it lead the way

& scale the stars.

Grapes have birthed

their reign from leafed

adherence. The turn &

twist of twigs. Confluent

little creeks. Cleaving little

comrades. All for all

& one for one. Now I finally

get it. Love is the vigour

to hold.

Even tempests

need the time to

catch their breath. It is then

that we shall revel.

We’ve never tried to

toast in September

gales.

I think my

Reverend drinks

and I don’t blame her.

Says Christ

depicts a vine

and not a gun.

Green & garnet

globes out in the

yonder. Barrels grace

with age. Pregnant

with salvation.

MAGA troll

her daily. The Bishop

cups his ears. He chucked

his cassock once

in a fit of nerves. Reminded

him of blood. A cape without

a sky

and none to beckon.

Andreas Gripp

July 10, 2026

photo: Norse Creative