Welcome to the Fall Edition of MER Quarterly! Food As Nourishment and Metaphor A Poetry Folio Curated by Jennifer Martelli and Cindy Veach Featuring: Cynthia Atkins, Ana María Carbonell, Keats Raptosh Conley, Diane Raptosh, Anna Abraham Gasaway, Nicole Greaves, Jen Karetnick, Merie Kirby, Anya Kirshbaum, Kashiana Singh, Raeshell Sweeting, Elinor Ann Walker Book Reviews & Interviews MER Bookshelf – September 2023 New books of poetry and memoir MER Quarterly – September 2023 image by Suzanne Altman. http://suealtmanart.com
Author: Mom Egg Review
Curated by Jennifer Martelli and Cindy Veach In her poem, “I will hunger,” Elinor Ann Walker states “All paths lead toward hunger,” and that The maw is the mother, her mouth, the oven, the hope that appetite leaves you, gaping, wild, sated. The poems in the September folio examine food in all its aspects: how it evokes memory and history; how it transforms the body and landscapes; how its absence leaves us wanting. In “Tapestry,” Cynthia Atkins’ speaker recollects herself as a teen with Carole King’s famous album, and asks Who knew when I sat cross-legged on the floor…
Jen Karetnick Babka “What they lacked in richness they made up for ‘with the delightful swirls,’ and the inclusion of chocolate was a mid-twentieth century American Jewish invention.” https://food52.com/blog/18792-the-babka-you-ve-seen-everywhere-isn-t-really-babka-after-all Matriarchal fertility cake named for grandmothers, it’s more than an excuse for sixteenth-century panettone. It’s the heaven we only colloquially have faith in, thanks to Poland’s Queen Sforza and Ukrainian Jews, the peasantry of pleated skirts that its creased, tucked sides smack of. I built it with my own progenitors, the dough first sometimes frozen overnight for uniform rolling, lined up like winter puddles. They never used expensive ingredients, only…
Raeshell Sweeting On weaning The day after it happened you walked up the steps holding onto the short rail. You told me you were a big girl. You could “do it yourself!” You did not ask can you hold me? That night you were determined to use the chopsticks and eat ramen “by yourself!” But at some point, you tire of the struggle – careful coordinated dance of utensil and food, you ask me can you feed me? I take the chopsticks you hand me, nimble fingers doing the work to grasp…
Elinor Ann Walker I will hunger “the wind, the wind,/ the heavenly child”—Hansel and Gretel “Don’t confuse hunger with greed; And don’t wait until you are dead.”—Ruth Stone, “Advice” All paths lead toward hunger. Hunger is a snarling wolf, a house of confection, the sweet that rots the tooth, the cramp that drowns her, an ogre, an ache in the voice of a mother, stepmother, witch. They say to the children, do not stray off the path, do not ask for anything. In her small hands, hunger dissolves like sugar; in his, a breadcrumb turns to dust, a brittle…
Kashiana Singh How to destroy a sunny side up, like an 8-month-old practice what you preach, walk the talk, show vs tell he learned to devour the yolk before he learned to bite into a toast, wonder where he got that from? he likes eggs. period. boiled are good with a steal of salt, crushed pepper, sprinkle of cumin powder but the sunny side up tender perfection of a golden center, sunshine himself, dribble spit streaked with oblique white, deepest yellow dotted with toast crumbs, or pepper crushed onto a lissome pattern of celebratory ochre a smile reaching his…
Anya Kirshbaum In the Midst of Catastrophe, She Blesses What Falls I’m here to confess the asian pear tree in our yard had a year of unabashed bounty, fruits hanging like succulent yellow baubles, so heavy the crown drooping, so close to toppling. And how it was a joy upon first discovery that I could hardly stomach. Glowing like some gaudy garden of riches. The waste the idle glut some kind of beautiful dagger. And that I almost made sake and pear sorbet. I say almost— a truth of which I am slightly ashamed. Now the rotting fruits stink…
Merie Kirby The witch I have become I plant cosmos and zinnia, flowers that hold their own crowns in their centers. I plant foxglove, so that at the new moon a fox will come and slip her paws into the soft mittens of the flowers. I memorize recipes for buttermilk pancakes, meatballs, and negronis. My cat is white, my little dog is grey, my plastic cauldron holds candy once a year. I shrank my herb garden to basil, rosemary, sage, mint. If the walls of my house were gingerbread I would have eaten them myself long ago. Standing in…
Nicole Greaves Scars On a late Friday night in the sauna, women gather, stripped down to their underthings or just wrapped in a white towel becoming spools. Even though we melt like candles, it’s not as hot as my mother’s country where I stood in my great-grandmother’s yard becoming wood like the cows who did not move when the flies settled on them. We sweat and sigh as our scars begin to glisten and ripple, come alive with their burning. You could unzip us like coats, and we could almost step out of ourselves, but no, we’ve spent too…
Anna Abraham Gasaway The Kenmore Refrigerator The light’s gone out but it still keeps things cold and freezes—Sears has gone out of business, so ten-year warranty’s no good. No repair person will come and visit this relic; it was the cheapest version—had no frills, no ice maker; we figured that’s the first thing that would break—but no, it was the side shelves; they have a weak middle—we duct taped them round and round. It’s filthy with ghosts of salad-dressings past, celery and greens left languishing, tuna from the Land of the Lost, weird smelling rot at the back. These…