The convergence of poetry and prose offers a unique canvas for writers, allowing the lyrical beauty of poetry to interlace with the structured narrative of prose. This exploration delves into the art of infusing poetic elements into prose, illuminating how the marriage of these two forms can enrich storytelling. Understanding Poetry’s Essence: Poetry, with its condensed language, vivid imagery,…

i washed my hair with the soap once, a 3-in-1 lie from that christmas. i lived up the block. my hair was still damp. you sat next to me, openly smelled my hair. told me you liked it. i washed my hair with it every single morning i knew that i would see you, so you would smell me, touch me. what is left for you is the smell of dark hot chocolate mixed with Frangelico and topped with whipped cream, for when you cast off the blueberries and come back home to dry land. if you ever will.

you used it every single day, multiple times a day, like a ritual. one of the rituals, possibly born of anxiety, that kept your hair gleaming like a raven’s wing, and your skin the impossibly clear color of unskimmed cream. whispers, understandings, fights. was this love without romance? romance without love? a little of both, just to teach you what to expect later and teach me what I’d be chasing? what is left for you is the smell of citrus peels and coriander seed, and night, and the tiny space betwixt three trees, where we would sit forehead to forehead and tell each other secrets.

there was an understanding between us, one that extended past what most people thought. we understood each other on a metaphysical level, discussed things that went beyond the stars and connected mind to mind, soul to soul. we spoke of angels, and God, and gods, of demons and monsters and mental illness, of destiny and fate. we radiated the feeling of sobbing while laughing without ever speaking the words. instead we spoke in music, in song lyrics and melodies, weaving a tale about us using other people’s words. when you left, i did things to try to remember you. i ate bolognese sauce on a slice of toast with a glass of Pepsi on the side. i read poetry in polish. i sat outside and stared at the full moon, wondering if you were looking it too, like the Anais Nin story i had told you about. “we all see the same moon”. what is left for you is the sound of “and there will your heart be also”. “from this maelstrom to be with you”.

with you, it was like it was something that had meant to be from a long time ago, but had just barely come back together. when i daydream, it is of a shady cottage with many flowers that i know belongs to you. when i sip tea, it is strong earl grey with sugar, and it reminds me of you (and makes me laugh at how bergamot, of all things, ties me to so many, and so many to me). the taste of copper and salt, the smell of blood, the uncomfortable monthly cramps, all draw memory of your words, your soothing of me. sometimes the memory of your voice pricks my eyes with salt needles, in loss and despair, something that could have been, that grew secret, and is now kept away hidden in a box somewhere. someday i will see your name in the newspapers, with a title, or titles, and i will laugh because i told you from day one that you would have them. someday i will see someone on your arm, and you will smile at them, and they will smile back, and it will not be me. someday, if we are both lucky and cursed, we will see each other. we will meet each other’s soulmates. we will dine together, drink together, laugh together. and every time we meet each other’s eyes, it will be with thoughts of ownership on our minds, and fate, and loss, and whether or not it is real and it is meant, but somewhere else. what is left for you is the smell of kelly moss, and a knitted peacock-blue dress, and Pyrrha laying among the roses.

Avgalemona Soup

lemony broth chicken rice

really good soup if you're sick which you are  or so they say.

To me, it's just some  devilish cells

dancing a tarantella all over parts of you:

lungs, bones, liver, brain, breast.

What's sick is that  the chemo makes you sicker

And every Monday in Dublin you ask for the avgalemona soup

So Dad and I happily trek to the Greek place down the street