The Jain

Kill not, cause no pain. Nonviolence

is the greatest religion.

—Mahavira

I’ve been swayed to believe

the guy next door is a Jain.

The way he creeps upon his

toes divulges all—then bounding

between the ant hills

like The Nutcracker ’s in his yard.

His every limb’s akimbo

akin to Gumby—

ensuring the snails won’t

have their ceilings rent

like the crack before an omelette—

which is a half-assed simile—

since he never nudges eggs

unless one’s fallen from its eyrie.

I’ve spied him doing the

limbo so as to not

disturb the moth that’s on a branch—

pursuing its winded breath—

letting the pigeons

blot his head

so that the weeds can stay unsullied.

He’s sacrificed his joints

for every sagging, hornet’s nest;

telling Baryshnikov

        hold my kombucha.

It’s not just tares &

bedbugs to whom he’s gentle.

He’ll divvy his vegan food for

when the Mormons come to call.

Offers to wash their backpacks

in his sink.

I channelled my inner child—

ordered a pizza to his door in

order to test his sanctity.

He raptured each anchovy  

while on the porch, bestowed them

to the driver with a hug &

lavish tip, beseeched him

to return them to the water,

for even in their death they

swim to Moksha, where a worm

no longer baits, where a crow will

let one squirm in pure

delight, pulsing to its resplendent

allegretto.  

Andreas Gripp

August 11, 2026

photo of Mikhail Baryshnikov: Max Waldman