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

by Terence Winch

September 2013    

Small Potatoes

We went out to eat.
It was like walking on eggs.
The waiter spilled the beans
and then we ordered.
I had the sour grapes
with the spilt milk,
which made you cry.
You wanted tough
muffins. How do you
like them apples?
the waiter asked.
He was the apple
of our eye. But every
thing in the end seemed
like small potatoes.



You bring out your articles and pronouns
your justifications and protestations.

I will not fight against the embarrassments
that we have so carefully accumulated.
I’m prepared for carnage.
That’s the way I roll.
Leave now, if you want,
and we will stuff our history in storage.

I do not want to sacrifice desire for a good meal.

It’s March already, and nobody seems to be hungry.
Why, I don’t know. Should I sing a song about
plums? They are mysterious and full of magic,
and I am falling asleep in a dream of their sweetness.


Money, Food, Love

He keeps offering me money.
Three thousand, five thousand,
whatever. Name the amount.
I say forget about money.
It’s love I’m after.

He says what kind of cosmetic
surgery would you get if
money were no object.
I would get my nose
Or maybe get the two frown
lines erased from my brow,
because people always
think I’m angry. But in truth
I am incredibly serene.
The only thing I’m after is love.

She says eat as much of these
tasty slices of turnips frying
away on the stove as you’d like.
Slather them with butter and salt.
They are the world’s most unpopular
vegetable, but that is so wrong.
They are really very savory.
But I don’t want any food.
I’m never hungry any more.
All I want is love, just love.


  Terence Winch’s most recent books are Lit from Below (Salmon Poetry [Ireland], 2013) and Falling Out of Bed in a Room with No Floor (Hanging Loose Press, 2011). His poems have appeared in four Best American Poetry collections and in many other anthologies and journals. He is the winner of an American Book Award, an NEA poetry fellowship, and other honors. Also a musician and songwriter, he released a CD in 2007 called When New York Was Irish: Songs & Tunes by Terence Winch. See www.terencewinch.com.


Photo used under Creative Commons.