Enigma

I gift you

a book of crosswords—

with all of the answers

filled by a fountain

pen.

 

You deride me for

frugality, for the gall

of the Sally Ann,

the time

I gave a jigsaw,

bereft of its final piece.

You spent ninety

days for naught;

a fossil

in the stratum

sans a bone.

 

But please don’t

misconstrue—they’re simply not

the same. Cogitate

the squares—blacked out like

the houses in the blitz,

unwilling to yield what’s

hid, a mother &

her bairns

behind a curtain;

 

a doctor sawing an

arm replete with

shrapnel, a dog

beside the bed

in spite of germs;

or a pair of smitten

teens, their faith that

 

the unsaid

will never divulge

his darkest secrets,

regardless how he’s held

beneath the lamp,

hanging by his ankles

on a hook, mum on

where is love

and where she’s not,

the blueprint of her

lair, the letters of her

sacred nom de guerre.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

July 7, 2026

Photo: Yong hian Lim / Dreamstime