The Wolf, 30 September

I never would have

pronounced it Myeengun when

I was 3. A name

needed to be mono-

syllabic, in the utopic

“Summer of Love.”

There is little I recollect,

and wouldn’t save the T

of tangerine. I remember our

philia—thinking it utters ally—

bedfellow back in the day.

There were 67 left

in ’67. School is now

synonymous with his death.

And I bemoaned a

rubber ball

against my skull. Just a welt

and not a crack. Bequeathed

a lasting phobia

of lacrosse.

For the single year

I knew him he was kind.

My neighbour “John” Antone,

which I muddle with

Atone, as if his blood would

wash me clean—the heap

of Autumn leaves

atop his frame, laying beneath

the light, daring me to step

across his “grave”—the crunch

beneath my shoes as if

his bones;

the half-a-leaf that wouldn’t

let me go, sticking to a sock

like it was nectar; tracked into my

hallway like that piece of aberrant

love I cannot shake.

Andreas Gripp

September 30, 2026

photograph: Gail Oskin / Getty Images