Patrick Donnelly

My death makes her way to me carrying green leaves. I hear my prayer coming behind illness, romantic noise, urgent telephone messages, alchemical lab results, like a brook weaving through thicket. Water knows the way, it isn't lost. My teacher comes [...]

Baba feeds me with his own hand. The night my friend died he pressed dark chocolate into a macaroon, popped it in my mouth. The sweetness cut the pain. Another time he shows me how to fry black mustard seed in ghee, spoons silky dhal between my lips [...]