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

Three Poems on Monet

by Gail Peck

July 2013    

Day at Giverny

At daybreak, breakfast was sausages, bacon,
eggs, toast from crusty bread, marmalade, half-moon
of stilton in a dish shaped the same, and tea.
Then Monet and his stepdaughter, also a painter,
would head for the countryside or the green studio-boat.

Lunch precisely at 11:30, on the blue
Japanese china, and if guests were coming
it would be at this time. Dinner at 7:00,
for the master of the house retires early
and is frustrated all the next day should his schedule vary.
If his American son-in-law, who eats slowly, comes for lunch,
the butler is ordered not to serve each dish twice.

The table set three times a day, a vase of bee-orchids,
or clematis floating in a bowl. Alice will consult
her husband about menus for the week—
baked calf’s liver, marinated haunch of venison,
mussels with fresh herbs, and if Whistler is coming
it will be pigeon stew. If rabbit, Monet insists on wild hare.
Delphine irons the linens, Sylvain chooses the wine.
Outside, the gardeners plant and trim.

Monet must capture the ever-changing light, dressed
in a straw hat, overcoat and pegged britches, his beard
now white. Forever reaching for the sky that will reside
in the pond, and water lilies floating on clouds.


Monet’s Table

To walk through the profuse gardens,
barely a pathway—much of what he painted—
lilacs, wisteria, and the rose arbor I find
sentimental, the obsessive lilies blooming in the pond.
Cantankerous Monet, who controls everything
except the day’s light, in his green boat complete
with easel, surrounded by still water.

Better to sit at the table covered with linen,
yellow-bordered porcelain with blue edging.

Mushroom Paté
Oyster Soup
Duck with Turnips
Strawberry Mousse

The cook, ever aware of timing, the ebb and flow
of conversation, knowing the mousse, which is baked,
must be served immediately. I romanticize. Unpredictable Degas,
Cezanne’s temperament, all the topics to avoid with Rodin,
late as usual. Yet, to be in such company, Isadora
as exotic as any centerpiece. Madam Monet, amused,
but always aware of her husband’s eyes. All this
before the war, Monet decanting champagne as if
it were ordinary white wine, and everyone toasting the future.


Monet’s World

China plate balanced against the wall,
compote of peaches ripe for eating
or to make a pie. Sliced melon on
a saucer, luscious orange
and texture of rind. Green grapes
good to go with cheese. Cellared wine to open.
Escape the house into a breeze that lifts
the tablecloth and stirs the leaves.
Summer’s abundance, picnics on the lawn,
and where to find a better garden?
The children play hide and seek while
grownups sit, and if the sun weren’t shifting
it would seem all time had stopped.
A slice of tart still tempting.
Soon dust and shadows settle—
hard to tell what’s real except by knowing
where the weeping willows stand
beside the pond, how their branches brush
the bank, the bark he paints alive with pink.


  Gail Peck is the author of three poetry chapbooks and three full-length collections, most recently Counting the Lost. Poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals including The Southern Review, Nimrod, Greensboro Review, Mississippi Review, Rattle, Connotation Press, Brevity, and Cave Wall. Photo taken by James Peck.