ONE
This isn’t yet
another suicide,
refrains of self-
demise,
but rather the
ecstasy
of knowing that it
ends, the instant life
tastes of roses
on your tongue,
the bleeding
of your palms
from clutching
stems,
the pulse
of red descent
that slakes the roots
you wouldn’t wrest,
not even with your
cat severely
scratched,
knowing it wasn’t
from an outstretched
duel of claws,
or the message
from the florist
that said we’re closed,
that your mother
would have to simply
do without,
her casket
like the table
in the kitchen—even on her
Birthday/Christmas
Day,
the vacancy of
vase and spotless
plate,
cutlery for two
serving half of its
intent,
except for the second
knife/serrated
blade,
going the extra
mile, its teeth upon
your wrist and crusty
bread,
giving to you
what the vineyard
never could:
Do this in
remembrance
of me.
TWO
This isn’t
yet another
banal ballad, of
pitied, own-infliction—
it’s of wine, is it
not?
Its marriage
of loaf & crimson,
its Friday happy
hour,
its stain from
3pm
that shrieks you’re
saved.
Andreas Gripp
October 15, 2024
RF Image
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