Warning Signs

You say our survival

is dependent

on the heeding

of warning signs.

A tickle in my throat

precedes a cough,

and the cellist

can somehow

sense it, glares

an evil eye, just daring

me to do it,

become the centre

of attention

like the imbecile

applauding

before the adagio

is done,

unaware a

pause

will herald coda,

like a catching-

of-one’s-breath,

once the firing

squad takes aim,

that they’ll blast away

your brain

upon the wall,

tear the Vyshyvanka

off your back,

say there’s nowhere

else to flee that isn’t

“Russia”—

or like the time

the road was icy

with the brakes about

to give—your vision

Kreskinesque,

that the bridge

is closed

is a horrible way

to tell you

you’re about to die,

that the river

is frozen over—

but not enough to

prevent you falling

through its frosty

sheen—like the skater

too obsessed

with figure 8s,

has no inkling

her time has

come, that she’ll swell

up like a fish

upon the dredging,

mouth agape, a hookless

suffocation.

I hold our humble

baby in my arms,

watch her naïveté

of smile,

warning she hasn’t

got a clue

of what’s to come,

millions more of

her in sterile

cloth, unless they’re

somehow birthed

in bombed-out basements,

the Hospital above

in Arabic,

curving lines and dots

a ghost of shorthand,

which had gone the

way of Beta, Blackberry,

any B-word

not in style,

leaving nothing 

that is hidden,

no miracle of teething,

elemental word

that’s just exhaled,

initial steps of

wonder on the broadloom,

like footprints

on some moon

we thought we’d conquered

long ago.

Andreas Gripp

rev June 10, 2025

RF Image