Mycelium by Wilda Morris

At Grandmother's Table circa 1948 by Elizabeth Langemak

Taste by Patridge Boswell

Lullaby by Edward Mayes

Shakespeare by James B. Nicola

Summer Night by Diane Giardi

100 Words on My Father with a Big Fish by Jan Presley

Why go to heaven yet by Margo Davis

Roll Over Beethoven by Jonathan Pacic

limnophila aromatica by Susan Soriano

Bantams by Heather Bourbeau

Salt by Carolyn Wells

It Won't Taste the Same by Michelle Morouse

The Fallacy of Comparisons by Paul Lieber

Ode to End of Summer by Wally Swist

408 Dates with Maureen by Gail Bellamy

Taste Testing by Sarah Fawn Montgomery

A Meditation on Working as a Produce Clerk by Ross Stager

Le Fouquet by Elisa Albo

Two Poems by Sarah Paley

Transubstantiation by Susan O'Dell Underwood

Two Poems by Sharon Abra Hanen

Strawberries by Vincent Peloso

Chin Chin by Jessica M. Brophy

Nonpareil by Lois Rosen

Creating Foodie Monsters by Elisa Albo

Foods I Love by Meredith Drake

Three Poems by Terence Winch

Soufflé by Piscilla Atkins

Three Poems by Gail Peck

Under the Kitchen Floor by Bruce Cohen

Spring Peas Come to the Stores by Hannah Fischer

Two Poems by Grace Bauer

Kettle by Susan Kelly-DeWitt

Going to Get Swedish by Carol Berg

Potluck on Sulphur Creek by Brenda Butka

My Mother's Handwriting by Julia Wendell

Radish by Lauren Henley

The Way of the Buddha by Nadia Ibrashi

Famine Bread by Karen Holmberg

Leer Comida by Andrés Catalán

Cooking Show by Gary Mesick

Museum of Butter by Carol Jenkins

Two Poems by Crystal Simone Smith

Yardbird Suite by John Dufresne


by Edward Mayes

September 2015    

We can Name That Tune of the book
That’s fallen to the floor after we’ve nearly fallen
Asleep, a thin Sciascia novel trying its hardest

To shush itself, the pasta-filled overly post-it-ed
Waverly Roots’s Foods of Italy, or that renegade
Gatorade-spotted bilingual Italian text whose

Difficulties we cry over on the exercise bike
In the garage. Magazines make even more noise—
Charles Simic’s sausage article in Bon Appétit

Seems to shout Hot Dog as it slides down organdy.
We’ve drawn the line at 20-pound medieval
Encyclopedias (see entry under lumbago) but

Still cuddle with books on possibly-deer-resistant,
Not-probably-frost, or most-assuredly-not-drought-
Resistant plants (see entry under plumbago). On

The still surf of these pages of waves—yesterday’s
Mail, the Have You Seen so & so, the Whole Hog
Menu Paul’s cooked at Olivetos that weekend, and

To which we went with Toni & Shotsy and talked
Only vegetable talk to counteract the only meat talk
We talked at Greens. We’ll miss our vegan gourmand

Friends at the pig feast, and they won’t hear about
The pickled pork ears, and they would run the other way
If we ever mentioned the stuffed trotters. Soporific is

A word I don’t use lightly or frequently but it may be
Willie’s favorite, even though he’s only a six-weeks-old
Human, who after his four ounces murmurs soporific

Soporific, slurping the ic a bit and then he’s gone, without
The detritus of book thumping on the carpet. How unlike us,
How unlike those Sevillians we saw in January in Triana, it was

12:30 am before the flamenco boots and castanets and polka-
Dot dresses and children, clapping and tapping their feet and
Would they immediately become adults when they finally got to bed?


  Edward MayesMayes’s books of poetry include First Language (Juniper Prize, University of Massachusetts Press) and Works & Days (AWP Prize in Poetry, University of Pittsburgh Press). He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina and Cortona, Italy with his wife, the writer, Frances Mayes. Their latest collaboration is The Tuscan Sun Cookbook (Clarkson Potter, 2012). Photo by J. Henry Fair.