Two for the Price of One

ONE

This isn’t yet

another suicide,

a ballad 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 poem, 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