Two months since my ex and I broke up and,
by Isabella Clark
here in Oregon, it’s mushroom season. My ex never cooked mushrooms correctly, he liked to mess with things that sat perfectly content and happy. I sauté mushrooms in butter and allow the proteins to break down under low heat for a time. Patience as a form of love is something I had to swallow, chunky spoiled milk from my mother. Patience + Time = perfectly cooked mushrooms, but my ex and mother would take wooden spoons and mess with my recipe. How many poems can I write about him before the whole thing becomes cringy?
It's truffle season here in Oregon, and the last time I saw him (ex) was yesterday while the guy who bought me dinner and I drove past him outside his (ex) white Subaru holding hands in his blue Celica. We kissed for the first time last night, his lips were awkward and my mouth did not get the cues. Our tongues made useless as they never touched, but still he walked around to the passenger door outside my sister’s house. This guy helps me up and out of the car when the takeout spills. IDK if he knows the taste of milk, sour, or what can come after swallowing… honey. Patience lies on my tongue like organic honey that I sucked out of a stick from the farmer's market when I lived in California, so young.Â
C.A. is where we're from and that is his name. I do not know If I will love him like I loved my ex and that is okay because that love ate me from the inside out until I would end most days in pain. Here in Oregon it’s mushroom season and C.A. does not mess with my mushrooms but instead opens his mouth to accept my honey. Lovely?
Isabella (Spotroxy) lives in Salem, Oregon where she attends a community college nearby while working as a host at a restaurant. She has previously been published in Maudlin House. You can find more of her work on her Instagram @spotroxy1 or substack
