The Marionette

You’re the shadow

on the floor

who’s told to dance.

The trot from an

orange fox, willing to

play the hunt.

The hounds all

bark at once. A bullet

to the ether

ever-eclipses on your mark.

You always asked

how far when told to leap.

Your jump beyond the sand.

A star of fieldless tracks.

An icon made of wax—

there upon the podium,

your lanyard shone of gold.

If you think this poem’s

on sport then guess again.

This has nothing to

do with puppets. Of hands

that lift in flame

a tethered string.

There’s a lifeless, vestal

candle on the ceiling. Looking

like stalactite in a cave.

The matches burned

themselves in sacrifice.

It had no place else to weep.

To illumine is to suffer.

This has nothing to do

with light.

Andreas Gripp

October 9, 2025

Liubov Kaplitskaya