While You Slept

 

You’re lamenting

like a kvetching

Jeremiah:

 

I no longer write you

love poems; say your lilt

has put to shame

the morning swifts;

I haven’t compared your

glory to a nestling’s—

in that moment it

takes to the sky

for the very first time.

 

Very first is quite

misleading. Its wings

may have burst through

fissures while you slept.

Then took a trial flight

beneath the fleet of stars.

My telescope

transfixed upon the

same old barren

basins of the moon—

 

until an egg which up &

fluttered before it hatched,

declared its innate fondness

for the air—forever yoked

as to a plow—

 

that much like Galileo, I’d be forced

to keep this discovery to

myself—housebound to the

margins—

 

sing you happy birthday

despite my strep;

scrub lasagna from the

pan while you are napping;

creep into the bedroom

with an afghan, lay it on

your body while you slumber,

then place my newest scribble

in your hand for when

you wake—

 

a caterpillar

gone aloft—albeit

in the clutch of beak;

drifting nigher to the

sun than any moth

would ever venture

in either dream or

dread of dusk.

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

April 11, 2026