It’s not
the highest mountain
but a jar of
pickle juice.
It’s not a
molten bed
of burning coals,
but the gulp
of sour dill,
the brine &
cloven garlic,
the wince
of eyes and
lips,
nausea’s
inevitable
pull, a dash
toward the
toilet,
reminiscent
of the days
you offered dares,
to prove how much
I cared,
my streaking
through the streets
without a stitch, without
a paper bag
upon my head,
knowing my feet
were well prepared
for any surface, toiling
up a summit
if required,
only bites
from a single
cucumber
to sustain,
letting my love
take all the laurels
it could get.
Andreas Gripp
December 2, 2024
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