The Accident

Our dilly-dally dog is the reason

that we’ll die. His last-second sniffing

of the soil. The bug in the

corner of his sight.

 

The mantis that will leap

instead of pray will bear the blame

on second thought. Our smashing through

the windshield—

like a baseball that’s been clubbed into

a neighbour’s just-put-in

stained glass. The shepherd and his lamb.

 

The key I forgot to oil

will be the death of us. Its resistant

nudge of time.

You should have prodded me to

buy a lubricant. Distracted by the

yelping of our mutt. That surplus breath

to pat his miserable brow.

 

We could’ve got a cat

when we had the chance. Her chase of

moth & monarch. Their wings ignite the

light of hesitation. A domino

in every flutter. A blink of an eye

later? We would have been someplace

else.

 

The left up Murphy Road that you

suggested. On the advice of Hans the

mailman. His boast of quickest routes.

The Easter card he carried

from Auntie Grace. The weight of

resurrection. Who even sends a

Hallmark

for a day we don’t believe in?

 

Until now. This is all Pilate’s

doing. His appeasement of an angry

crowd. The bowl that cleansed his

hands. Then again—the clerk at Dollar

Daze—entreated to help her

find it. Its hackneyed verse of hope

he read aloud. 

The pause to clear his throat.  

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

August 30, 2026

photograph: Ariel Skelley / Getty Images