The Phantom

You’ve come to the point

where everything’s

either/or:

Incense up to God. Wisps from

cigarettes.

Either way it curls,

like the tail of a Manx at

play. Where else could it go?

All that moves is ghost.

It’s why we have to blink.

Nothing to do with moisture

or the dust.

Your marble was a

croc and not a cat’s eye. 

When the bully

said he’d won you

simply nodded, assenting

to the A-bomb of his fists.

You appeased like

Chamberlain—they never left

his side and blacked your sockets.

Maybe nothing

cuts both ways.

Try it with a knife

and let me know.

The handle to the flesh

betwixt your ribs,

initials of your father

seared in wood—

your fingers

ripe with gore

or maybe malbec.

Tell me

what’s the difference

when we bleed,

our clotting like a bandage

come too late, lumbering

like a tortoise snagged

by mud, the weight of

every wound that’s

in the world.

Andreas Gripp

October 16, 2026

photograph: Nadjib ali Bachir