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 Priscilla Atkins

August 2013    

Evenings when Dad is out of town,
we are the new-found tribe of two—
I am fifteen, the last kid left;
we cook things pouffy and French.
Take-a-risk, out of the ordinary dishes.
Often a recipe with cheese
because inexplicable Dad doesn’t eat cheese.
                      One snowy night, a soufflé,
and homemade dark bread. Then off we putt
in your creamy white VW Bug to see Farrow
and Redford in Gatsby.
We both fall for the glimmer and gauze,
Daisy and Jordan awash in curtains, light,
linen couches;
                      Fitzgerald’s edible, swan-winged
narration. You know the tunes—
Five Foot Two-Eyes of Blue, What’ll I Do,
Alice Blue Gown.
Your own mother’s era.
I am pleased that her name was Alice.
I am happy, because you are happy.
An evening when even winter
tastes like summer; warm, buttery, nearly melted.


  Priscilla Atkins, who hales, originally, from East Central Illinois has finally learned to relish (young) corn on the cob. Her poems have spiced up the pages of Superstition Review, Poetry London, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner and other journals. She has lived in Los Angeles, Honolulu and, now, Michigan, near the lake of that name.


Photo used under Creative Commons.