The Wilt

You say I have a

yellow thumb. Our

ferns are over-quenched.

Adding we should nurture

succulents:

they never

ask for more than what

is needed.

 

I’ve shrivelled from

your bellicose tropes:

the beach doesn’t need

the waves

to be a beach. That merely the

grains suffice, and

you long for Kalahari:

sand is not a desolate

place.

 

You’ve left me parched &

wanting, a single

drop enduring in the

craw of my canteen,

preferring a snake’s

maraca

 

to the rattle of a baby’s

toy we bought for nothing.

 

You’re enamoured with el

amor—the needles

of a cactus misconstrued—

caress them from the bottom,

like the ever-wary

thorns;

 

that when we love things as

we should, we’ll grasp that it’s

the petals which cut to the quick;

why my dozen, darling roses

have been standing on

their heads—sadhakas

holding breath in

stagnant water—

 

your hands without a

scratch. And why

would I deduce they’re topsy-

turvy, that blood

must pay the toll for

your devotion?

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 6, 2026