Table set, fork in hand, napkin on my lap: sitting beside you, I still look like someone civilized. You’re leaning forward, hands cupping your neck, while I watch the slow rise and fall of your back. Like you, I need to be broken into. I imagine your head burrowed between my legs, fingers hooked inside […]
Poetry
Abraham Burickson: Sundays are for Market, Sundays are for Park
Lobsters agape in big glass tank. Bread and milk and eggs on shelf. Bread and milk and eggs in bag. And Charlie’s getting Charlie’s groceries. And hide your eyes, tuck your hands. And coat don’t brush a banker; shoe don’t touch a father; don’t touch a husband father worker, don’t touch a mother wife walker. […]
Grace Bauer: Hand to Mouth
I’ve got a full report from the sandwich committee. overheard in a hotel lobby Of course, I think baloney. Of course, I think ham and cheese, peanut butter and jelly – those familiar duos we grew up on. The ménage a trios of BLTs. But I know I must be missing the context, some definition […]
Toby Barlow: A Diary of Food
the song of slicing chickens’ throats just north of Santa Fe hanging them upside down from bare trees their dark blood dripping down onto the dry soil of the sangre de christo mountains. and mornings spent humming in a winter barn pushing around belligerent cows with stupid eyes stepping, almost slipping, on black iced shit […]