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 Patridge Boswell

October 2015    

The Americanos at the next table
are made of clay dust and rib bone.
They have as much history as
an episode of Teletubbies.

The ambiance of this grotto took
three thousand years to create
not including the millennia it
took to imagine (I’m going

to hide under the table now
and pretend I didn’t hear that
pretend I’m not from the same
genus or planet)—they want only

the right gin the right wine they want
the misto verdi pronto the friggin
chocolate ravioli in that order
& not the one they arrived in What’s

that? You’re all out of chocolate
ravioli? Then why’s it on the friggin
Legend has it he who offends
the shadows of that cave upon

emerging from its mouth finds
himself minus one of his senses—
misses the rusted apricot of dusk
embalming the duomo piazza or

the aromatic veil of rosemary
and honeysuckle drifting like
ghosts of virgins through blind
passages or soul-smooth cobbles

footworn by the dead’s diurnal
procession or the gift of a private
violin concerto sifting Vivaldi
from an open alley casement

or as likely in this zuppa del giorno
the capacity to discriminate anything
placed in the mouth beyond an
extravagance of cardboard paste.

The food here tonight? Delizioso! Squisito!
Our server says gratuity che viene
dal cuore…remember when Po makes
Tubbie custard? What a friggin waste!


  Partridge Boswell's first book of poems, Some Far Country, received the 2013 Grolier Discovery Award. His work has recently appeared in The American Poetry Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review and Poetry East, and on Vermont Public Radio. Co-founder of Bookstock: The Green Mountain Festival of Words, he lives with his family in Vermont.