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here is a poem i was assigned to write about an old photo using the words “bat, instrument, flower, idiot, monk, and jellyfish”

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eighteen years old

billy plays the hum of his bike like an instrument.

a cigarette lands between middle and pointer finger

a small hen come home to roost.

he never quite grew as big as he liked to talk

so he stepped up to bat, socked the biggest boy in school, and said

“are we going to have a problem?”

when he met priscilla he gave up picking fights for flowers.

her dark hair trailed behind her in the hallway, tendrils of a slow jellyfish.

reverent as a monk

i open my grandpa's old yearbook to find the inscription from my grandma

“we’re just two idiots who got stuck behind the door when god gave out brains.”

A List of Small Wonders pt. 7

The Cemetery

New Jersey has a reputation for bad drivers and a chronic stench, which is often attributed to landfills, sewage, or burning rubber. However, this is the scent I smelled when I was born and thus I am immune to it. When people reference the New Jersey Stink, I tell them to instead consider the thick, sugary fragrance flooding from the door of my grandparents’ favorite gelateria. When the door opens, even a blind man knows where he is.

The gelateria is located mere feet from a cemetery, so we affectionately call it “the Cemetery.”

“Grandma, can we go to the Cemetery?” my sister and I peep at my grandmother, who happily gives in. It’s always stracciatella for me, chocolate for Yael, pistachio for my grandpa, and coffee for my grandma. At the Cemetery, kids from other families gaze over the fence at the tombstones. I think about laying my cone down like a bouquet. Instead, I lick the drips that threaten to roll onto my hand.

Recently, my grandmother had her 81st birthday, sending me a selfie holding a coffee ice cream cone. The caption?

“We went to the Cemetery!” It turns out gelato is the only way to return from the dead.

A List of Small Wonders pt. 6

Reader–I desperately need your opinion. Should I spend $200 on a dress for a wedding to which I’m not sure if I’m invited? I’ve got my eye on one. The dress drapes weightily in a wintery, emerald velvet, reaching the middle of the model’s calves. The light glints off of the fabric gorgeously like an oil slick. I am salivating.

Golden buttons travel down to the waist, which is accentuated by a seam and a V-shaped neckline with tiny golden trim. And just above the breasts? The appliquéd faces of two rabbits, facing towards each other as if in greeting. Three flowers adorn both of their necks festively. It comes with a long sash that culminates in golden tassels. It sounds crazy in writing, but it’s perfect. My sister called it a “Fairy Poet Princess Witch” dress. I see myself at the wedding, spinning in circles to typical wedding songs like “September” by Earth Wind and Fire. Do you think I’ll need a nice dress for another event? Should I buy it just in case? The anticipation of pressing “Add To Cart” makes me tingle.