MUSIC TO READ BY

Poetry

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

Why go to heaven yet

by Margo Davis

May 2015    


if I can cross Napoleon
and head up Magazine Street for
a slice of T. Eva’s sweet potato pie.
Or maybe I would see
in the cool of her converted snowball stand
a dark smooth misshapen praline.
Or paper-thin skins curling away from red beans
so plump I cradle one at a time
on my tongue. Juices in the Styrofoam bowl
moisten rice perfectly steamed. Perfect
timing before she sells out,
before the Mardi Gras revelers shift focus
from catching doubloons
to sampling a hot bowl of gumbo
like no one else can cook,
each spoonful a trombone solo
toward heaven.
I see my daughter bite gingerly
into a crawfish pie, crust so flaky
I want to chicken dance
all the way back to the parade route.
I meet myself strolling with my ex--
inappropriate timing, here in
twilight memory-- as he presses
index finger to his thumb,
an OK sign spiraling pot plumes,
hands still greasy from all that
repair work when Elvis lost his head
to power lines, his legendary sneer scraping concrete
like a full-blown hangover. We floated home
in our Caddy the color of soiled cotton,
paper mache Elvis gazing back
through the open trunk at the slack-jawed
fool riding our bumper so close
he might graze our beads.

 



  Margo Davis is recent Pushcart Prize nominee. Her poetry has appeared in Midwest Quarterly Review, Slipstream, Agave Magazine, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place; Texas Poetry Calendar, Houston Poetry Festival, and Goodbye, Mexico. When not managing research services, she slips off to film festivals, where she reads poetry and foreign literature between screenings.