The Salad

You groan you’ve been

forsaken, before your swill

of vinaigrette, heaving

I’ve drowned the lettuce—

its brown of decaying

leaf, the shed of tomato’s

serum

once my fork has stabbed its

side in a final throe.

I tell you I’m still here,

that I simply over-

measured, mistook

3 teas for tables,

the err of a wooden

spoon,

say the olives

were too bitter, the stench from

crumbled cheese

(the last of the Nabulsi)—

which I should have

tossed away—

when it was clear

the power’s out,

six hours in which

the fridge

had lost its cool,

remark our candle’s

not sloughing tears

but bleeding light, 

its shimmer

from late-day

zephyr,

its wick burnt

to the base,

its loss of lofty

apex, gasping it

is finished

as if atoning for

my transgressions,

here amidst the

pall of your upheaval,

your vow that

you’ll be gone by Sunday

dawn.  

Andreas Gripp

August 8, 2025

RF Image