You respond to my
curtains’ close with a galling
no man is an island.
I was never a fan of Donne,
the tumult from his tolling bell
a cuckoo clock—I learned to
hate the birds because of it.
However I’ll acquiesce.
His verses are immortal—
mine are not—
as a result, I’ll become
a promontory, jutting into the
sea like a middle finger.
I’ll surround myself
with gators, piranha & electric
eels—the jolt of a wired fence;
a peninsula’s way to taunt
you are not welcome—
but should an extravert
leap the moat, my scorpions
serve as sentries,
their sting of a billion bees.
Maybe I’ll gnaw my tail
like a captive rat,
take a hacksaw
to my arm that’s wedged
in rock—like Franco in that
flick that gave me willies—
drift to the misanthropes,
the ones who’ve bent the rules,
an archipelago on
the vista, where visitors
are eschewed,
nod hello to our fellow
reticents if we must,
the calm of a single
palm in gritty sand, barbed just
like a hawthorn,
the gift of an
ocean trench, enraged as
Mauna Kea, spewing forth its
magma to keep its fish &
bards at bay.
Andreas Gripp
September 17, 2026
photograph: Susanrm8
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