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 Elizabeth Langemak

December 2015    

Terry Gross asks another young thinker if she has regrets and when the woman answers you say, All of these people are liars. We are driving again, and shadows of trees paint us

shaded then sunned. Regret lives like a hole under most people’s feet and they move within it

even when they think they are stepping around. This morning, I was teaching a class on mushrooms and their invisible roots. We call them mycelium and they float beneath us like buried clouds of uncarded wool,

acres of strands so sheer no harpist could play them and we cannot pull them apart any more than we could render a drop of thin rain from a mist. Between you and me, under the skin of our love, is a landscape

thumped through with regret, like irregular heartbeats strung through our happiness and the world is like this, and lives are like this, and I would not lie about this

but I suppose it is not Terry’s business. What I want, you are saying, is for one person to say yes, but I wonder if it matters. I wonder if we could comb her yes from her no if she did.

  Elizabeth Langemak lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.


Photo used under Creative Commons.