TAKEAWAY COFFEE

The Irish goodbye (Marcella Boccia) There’s a kind of quiet that lingers here—not the soft whisper of an evening breeze,but the kind that sits heavy,like a glass half-full,as if time itself has been pausedand nothing, not even the air,dares to break the stillness. It’s a silence that slips into cornersof dim-lit pubs and crowded rooms,where laughter once bounced like raindropsoff cobblestones,wher...

Shadows in the national library (Marcella Boccia) In the hush of dust and parchment,where silence hangs like a forgotten hymn,I walk through the labyrinth of books,a ghost, a wanderer,swallowed by words older than my years. The shelves curve like the spine of a prayer,and shadows dance in the dim corners—long fingers stretching,reaching for the pastas if it could be touched,pulled down from the he...

The Christmas tattoo (Marcella Boccia) In Dublin's fog, where the air smells of rain and history,I sit in a chair, my hand outstretched,waiting for the needle to pierce the skinlike a promise made in the dark. A Brazilian artist, hands steady with the weight of ink and time,leans over my palm,his fingers tracing the outline of an echo—an arpa negra, black harp,its strings pulled taut with the musi...

The ink of my wrists (Marcella Boccia) I write with the ink of my wrists,where the skin is thin,fragile as the moments I cannot hold—the words spill out,a river of liquid memorythat stains the pages,that drips in the quiet spacesbetween heartbeats. I trace the lines of a lifethat is not mine,but borrowedfrom a thousand selveswho speak through me,their voices woven into the scarsI wear like a secon...

Seagulls over ha’penny bridge (Marcella Boccia) The wind carries whispersfrom the belly of the bay,and the seagulls—gray shadows against a steely sky—soar,unfurling wings like the forgotten pagesof an old, unread book. Their cries pierce the morning,sharp and rawas the taste of salt on lips that never learnhow to forget. They circle above the Ha'penny Bridge,a thousand voiceswoven together,chasing...

A coffee to stay alive (Marcella Boccia) A cup, bitter and black,its warmth curling in the chill of morning,a silent promise whisperedfrom the edge of my fingersto the pulse in my wrist—that I will keep breathing. This is all I ask,just enough to hold the fragile threadof beingin this unraveling world. A sip,and the hollow ache insidesettles like dust in the corners of my mind,an empty silence tha...

The poetry of a borderline mind (Marcella Boccia) I am the edge,where thoughts are sharp as glass,a thin line between light and shadow,walking the razor’s edge,where the world spins fasterthan I can breathe. My mind is a storm—whirling, spiraling,a thousand winds in a single thought. I don’t know where the sky endsand the earth begins—it’s all one tangled mess of sensation,a flickering light in a...

An Irishman’s smile (Marcella Boccia) It’s the quiet before the storm,the stillness of the sea at dawn,when the clouds are heavy with secretsand the earth holds its breath,waiting for the light to break. It’s the curve of his lips,slow as rain on cobblestones,a story unfolding in the curveof a secret untold—whispered in the heart of every Irish wind. He’s the echo of the past,the ghost of all the...

The girl with Viking fur (Marcella Boccia) She walks in the rain,with the echo of distant drumsin the pulse of her feet,the beat of her heartcarved in the rhythm of the earthbeneath her boots. Her hair, dark as the storm’s edge,whips in the wind,a banner of fire,a raven’s call in the quiet,waving like a flagabove the blood of her ancestors. She wears the Viking fur,tangled with the scent of salt a...

The silence of the book of Kells (Marcella Boccia) In the darkened halls of stone,where the air trembles with the weight of centuries,the pages of the Book of Kells lie still,silent,but not empty. Each letter is a cry caught in time,a whisper woven into gold and ink,a memory held in a hand that has long since crumbled,its bones lost to the earthbut its words alive,etched in the silence that surrou...

Blood in the Shannon (Marcella Boccia) The river runs red in the dusk,its current a slow burn beneath the grey sky,whispers of ancient bloodmurmuring beneath the surface,dragging the past with every breath. It was once a quiet thing,this river,a gentle path between hills and hearts,but now it carries the weight of storieswritten in ink and in tears,in every stone,every ripple,every silent scream....

The wind knows my name (Marcella Boccia) The wind is a storyteller,its voice ancient,whispering secrets in the crevices of stone,where the world’s skin is thinand the pulse of the earth beats louder. It knows me,not as I am,but as the things I’ve lost,the places I’ve wandered,the days that slip through my fingerslike forgotten prayers. I hear it in the rustle of leaves,in the sigh that bends the t...

A thousand pints, a thousand lies (Marcella Boccia) The pub is a temple to the ordinary,its walls thick with the scent of old regret,where laughter is poured like bitter ale,and the truth is drownedwith each swallow,each clink of glass. A thousand pints,each one an empty promise,a vessel for the stories we tell ourselves—that we are whole,that we are not brokenby the things we never speak,the sile...

Hands I will never hold (Marcella Boccia) There are hands I will never hold,fingers that will never trace my namein the quiet places where the soul slips,where words fall like autumn leaves,too soft to catch, too sharp to let go. I see them,those hands,reaching from the edges of dreams,from the places where love is not a choicebut an endless echo,familiar and strange,like the moon’s pale light on...

Swan song in the docklands (Marcella Boccia) The city hums beneath the weight of the evening,iron skeletons against a bruised sky,and the river, thick as forgotten grief,carries the last breath of daylight,a sigh slipping into shadow. The swan glides, silent,its wings cutting through the water,a ghost in the skin of the world,the pulse of its heart lost in the thrum of engines,the call of its song...

The ferry to nowhere (Marcella Boccia) The ferry rocks in the mist,its hull a whisper against the water’s skin,the river yawns wide, a mouth full of secrets,and I step aboard, heart full of questionsthe wind will not answer. There’s no map, no compass here,only the soft hum of the engine,like a prayer that has forgotten how to speak,and the cold, the ever-present cold,licking at my bones, remindin...

St. Stephen’s green in the rain (Marcella Boccia) The park sighs beneath the weight of grey,its trees trembling in the soft, steady weeping. Each drop a kiss from the sky,each leaf a prayer to the endless dusk. A woman passes, umbrella tilted,her coat a shadow stitched with regret. Her footsteps leave ripples on the path,like memories sinking slowly into the earth. The fountain, broken but still w...

The cobblestone lament (Marcella Boccia) Night spills like stout on the streets of Dublin,thick, dark, foaming at the edges of song. The cobblestones hum with the weight of old feet,echoes of boots that marched and danced,that staggered home, hands full of ghosts. A fiddle wails from a Temple Bar corner,its cry threading through rain-heavy air,a needle stitching past to present,pulling grief tight...

Black wood and ghostly whispers (Marcella Boccia) The trees lean in, hushed conspirators,their spines black against the salted dusk. Wind threads through the branches,a cold hand slipping through ribs. I walk where the earth swallows footsteps,where silence blooms in damp lungfuls,where shadows wear the faces of the deadand call my name with mouths of leaves. Somewhere, a fox slips between the roo...

I knocked on hell’s door (Marcella Boccia) I knocked on Hell’s door with winter-knuckled hands,three times, slow, like the toll of a broken bell. The wood was warm—sweat-slicked, pulsing like something alive. No voice called, no key turned,only silence, thick as blood in the throat,only the scent of burnt prayers and Sunday sins,curling like smoke from a lover’s mouth. I pressed my ear against the...

Liffey reflections (Marcella Boccia) The river wears the city’s face,a trembling mask of light and shadow,gold spilling from bridges like old prayers,the hush of December pressed against the tide. Somewhere, a gull cries, thin as regret,its wings slicing the sky open—a wound of blue, slow to close. Dublin exhales in cigarette ghosts,its breath curling around lost names. I watch my own face break i...

The man with red beard (Marcella Boccia) He stands at the edge of the world,coat heavy with the scent of salt and sorrow,his beard a flame against the drowning dusk,his eyes, two coins for the ferryman. The sea knows his name—spits it back in broken Gaelic,a curse, a prayer, a half-lost songthreaded through the teeth of the wind. Once, there was love,warm as whiskey in a cracked glass,but love is...

December in Dublin (Marcella Boccia) The Liffey moves like an old hymn,slow, thick with the weight of winter. Mist hangs in the bones of the city,soft as breath on a lover’s throat. Grafton Street glows in the amber hush,gold light pooling in puddles of night. Shop windows blink like tired eyes,tinsel-framed and full of want. A girl in a red coat spins in the rain,arms open to the hush of December...

The harp and the raven (Marcella Boccia) The harp sleeps in the hollow of the wind,its strings bruised by the fingers of rain. Night leans in, hush-heavy,a priest at the door of a dying man. The raven watches from the bones of an oak,ink-feathered, bright-eyed,a spill of shadow against the hush of moonlight. It knows the shape of silence,the weight of an unsung note. Once, a song lived here,spun f...

A pint for the dead (Marcella Boccia) The stout settles slow, dark as a sermon,a black sea holding its breath. Foam clings to the rim like last words,soft, white-lipped, dissolving. The bar hums—low, lonesome—a murmur of pint-glass elegies,hands curled around the weight of forgetting,knuckles knocking against absence. Someone laughs, loud, then gone,a wick snuffed out mid-flame. Outside, the river...