"There's Something Wrong with Morgan"

they would say. Your parents

could not concur on

much at all, but on that

they spoke as one.

When your father

spat it out, his squint was

from your supple

countenance.

Once, he suggested

that you strum

an air guitar. Your wrists are

limp enough. Bestowed a

sky piano. As gay as Elton

John’s. Hoping you’d

start a band up

in the ether, get out of his

fucking sight.

With mother it was worse.

Catching you in your

sibling’s training bra.

Curiosity

of a child, it was

embarrassingly

dismissed. A smack

upside the head 

imprinted that.

You changed your name to

Morgan. Folks pondered

its necessity, being the spelling

goes unchanged

despite the gender.

It’s the shift

in its inflection you retorted,

learning how to sway

truncated hips. Our sunrise

most sublime.

Morgen, if you’d stuck

to your German roots.

But you could hardly

forgive the way

they killed the Jews.

I told you it’s

identical

in Yiddish. Anglicized

from the Welsh

you’re birthed in sea.

An air-kiss from the

pursing of the waves.

A sparkled, golden

greeting from our star.

Shines on saint & sinner

you learned in church.

How wrong indeed you were

in penitent trudge,

beating would-be breasts,

das Licht eternally half-a-

skip ahead; invariably

silhouetted, your fuse

of girl & boy.

Andreas Gripp

November 24, 2025

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