For far too long I’ve listened in silence
to those espousing Kalamata supremacy,
(which, admittedly, I wholeheartedly concede),
or to others vaunting the virtues of Castelvetrano,
(God help those misguided dupes); I’ve patiently endured
insufferable disquisitions on the buttery flavor
of Cerignola, the tartness of Picholine,
the meaty richness of Gordal, most beloved
as a tapa beside slivered jamon and a glass of sherry.
With unbridled lust have I gazed at jet-black Nyon,
plump and wrinkly, dry-cured then aged in brine,
and I hereby confess that where my eye wandered,
alas, my faithless fingers soon followed.
Granted, I’ve nibbled my share of Nicoise tapenade
and reveled with abandon in its herbal fragrance graced
with faint notes of licorice; its petite counterpart
across the Alps, the Liguria, cannot withstand
comparison (very sorry, but my decision is final).
My palate has also thrilled at the tart, citrussy taste
of Gaeta, whose tender flesh enlivens the tongue;
I’ve swooned whilst savoring the sour bittterness
of Alfonso, supple after maceration in red wine.
Naturally, I’ve had my way with many a Manzanilla,
almondy ovals pitted then stuffed with pimiento
or else cracked and dressed with fresh garlic.
Full disclosure: I whored through handfuls of the rare
Beldi, sumptuous as a tagine garnish, and like a glutton
gorged myself on more Amfissa samples from the hills
by Delphi than the local oracles surely ever did.
And yet, for all my shameless promiscuity, I refuse
to avert my view from the grassy Mission variety,
oft overlooked and neglected by lesser connoisseurs,
but not by me, not this time, so once and for all let me
set the record straight, for in truth, I must insist,
black olives matter.

Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 300+ publications in 32 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com

A memory: my father
angry in Disney World,
his hand cold & damp
around mine as I fly
behind him like a severed rope
through a sea of costumed
families, in a frantic search
for a kiosk, a Coke, anything
to feed his blood. Finally
we find chocolate
which he swallows
without joy,

closes his eyes

and breathes,
presses both hands
on the yellow
counter & hangs
his head & sweats
& breathes
until his hands are dry
and he’s saying sorry
I’m sorry

As my vision wobbled
& bubbled into blackness
I became abstractly aware
of the teeth in my mouth
& even though this is not
what you’re supposed to do
when fainting, I gripped
the counter, desperately
searching for a door back
to my feet. Fireworks
crackled, still
& vibrant, staring
back

Emily Zogbi is a writer from Long Island who earned her MFA in poetry from The New School. Her work has been published in Chronogram, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, RHINO Poetry, Half Mystic, and Ocean State Review, among others. Emily was the recipient of the 2021 Sappho Poetry Prize from Palette Poetry and is a poetry reader for The Adroit Journal. Her debut book of poems, “all the time more than anything,” is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She wishes she had been a dancer.

When mango mania strikes, I ditch my apple pie
and neglect my wife and my children.
The history of Lexington dims
and the street I live on,
where Paul Revere once galloped on his horse,
no longer ties me to this town.
India reigns in my mind –
the accordion pleats of a sari, orange jasmine blossoms against ebony hair,
the red sindoor on foreheads, the competitive cry of vendors,
the clanging of temple bells summoning late-comers, 
the devout singers with their seductive, spiraling notes,
the dancer’s jangling anklets reaching a crescendo 
as she hurtles forward on a brass plate,
the monsoon rain urgently pounding on rooftops,
the wafting scent of biryani that refuses to be banished from minds, 
the calming fragrance of sandalwood in handicraft stores,
and the once elegant ancestral house, 
decaying in the midst
of the scaffolding of residential buildings
rising around it like futuristic towers of doom.


As the craving becomes an obsession, 
I know I must head 
to the place where the ovoid fruit thrives
and is artfully reproduced on brocaded saris
that brides wear on their wedding day
and where the auspicious leaves of the mango tree
are strung along the entrance of homes on special occasions.
All one needs in life is a mango, smooth or pitted,
small or large, to be eaten or pureed into dessert.


At my uncle’s dining table, I watch my reflection 
greedily devour Alphonso mangos.
I wipe the mango juice that dripples down my chin 
with my hand and then I suck my fingertips.
My aunt remarks that I haven’t changed
nor have I forgotten my mother tongue.
You’re not stuck-up either, she says, watching
me wipe my chin with the heel of my hand this time.
The fruits taste like the ones I used to pluck from my mother’s garden
when, as a child, I’d ensconce myself on a lower branch 
and balance a stainless steel container 
dotted with chili powder and salt.
In my absence, the urchins would aim their slingshots
at our fruit and wander off with their spoils.
A week later, satiated with my uncle’s mangos, 
tired of the ceaseless hammering of laborers,
the nocturnal braying of dogs auguring death,
the relentless sun creating beads of sweat, 
the never-ending stream of visitors coming to see me,
and the stench of overflowing garbage on the streets, 
my thoughts flit across an ocean to America.
I miss my adopted town,
where sounds, sights, and scents are more subtle
and where mangos can be bought or gifted,
but none are as flavorful 
as those plucked in my ancestral home.
In my mind I’m already in Lexington,
where the Chinese, Brazilians, Pakistanis, Armenians
and others have also made themselves at home
and where we indulge in the American passion
for frozen yogurt even in chilly temperatures,
our portions widening with the years 
until we feel the need to practice austerity.
On my last evening, my uncle chuckles,
drums his fingers on the table, and says he won’t see me 
until mango mania strikes me again.
Then he winks, knowing he can depend 
on my cravings to guide me back to his table.

Tara Menon is a freelance writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts.  Her poetry is forthcoming in “Tiger Moth Review.”  The following journals and anthologies have published her poetry: “Yearning to Breathe Free,” “Blue Minaret,” “The Bangalore Review,” “voices ofeve,” “Calliope,” “Lalitamba,” “AzizahMagazine,” “Aaduna,” “Yellow as Turmeric, Fragrant as Cloves,” “the view from here,” and “10×3 plus poetry.”  Her nonfiction has appeared in “TheCourtship of Winds,” “The Boston Globe,” “The Kenyon Review,” “Green Mountains Review,” “Fjords Review,” “Na’amat Woman,” “Calyx,” “India Currents,” “Parabola,” “India NewEngland,” “Lokvani,” and “Hinduism Today.”  Her fiction has appeared in several journals and anthologies.

Full of green
Spicy bite 
Heart’s zing 
Rich appetite 


Brittle dust
Green smear 
Lying in sun 
Maple tear 


Missing leg 
Mean and sweet 
Dipped head 
Saturated treat 


Breaking limbs
One by one 
Sweet and mean 
Isn’t it fun 

Hannah Updegraff is a wellness blogger, vinyasa yoga teacher, and a Food Studies student at The New School. Find her on social media: @theheartbeet.co and @hannahkupdegraff

Photo by Hannah Updegraff

Satiating tears
The only ones
Delicate petals pressed
Steeped invisible fun

A drink that hugs you
A soothing twist
Magic potion pour
Hydrated eyelids

In your body
And on your skin
A liquid bouquet
A floral swim

Shrinking almonds
Maple saltwater
Blending a dash
Dissipating dropper

Sweet petal cream
A healing skim
Squeezed fluff
Beige bubbles the brim

Hannah Updegraff is a wellness blogger, vinyasa yoga teacher, and a Food Studies student at The New School. Find her on social media: @theheartbeet.co and @hannahkupdegraff

i pulled condoms and lubricant from
a jello cake
shoving the findings into my pajama pockets
while avoiding the watch of my family


i found children’s stickers in there too
and i pocketed them away


i flattened the cake into the marble it could be
it was blue and purple in all hues and shades
leaving it free of any mark that could be


i worked at my own kitchen
and my father came in
with two jello cakes for me


one was shaped like a fruit candy
he told me it was for my birthday
my birthday was one month ago


i jumped to the height of my saltshaker
perched on the stove vent


i am thumbelina
tiny and strong

Mercury-Marvin Sunderland is a Hellenist transgender autistic gay man from Seattle who uses he/him pronouns. He currently attends The Evergreen State College, and his dream is to become the most banned author in human history. He works for Headline Poetry & Press, and he’s been published in numerous magazines such as the University of California Riverside’s Santa Ana River Review. His art has been featured by the UglyDolls company and he represented Seattle at Brave New Voices 2017, the national tournament for youth slam poetry. He can be found as @Romangodmercury on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.

gossamer skin so delicate 
they must be hand-harvested. 
Rubenesque beauties, 
wrapped in fancy paper, 
presents worth praise. 
As you slice, focus Zen-like,
think pure union—outside and in, 
surface and secret core—
the most pungent,
like nuggets of a dream
that cling. Relish the feral fragrance 
of earth, grasp a hint of a story 
about loam and endurance. 


Witness alchemy in the swirl 
of butter and oil in the pan. 
Now, add the onions, 
sauté slow ever so slow. 
Resist the urge to stir, 
simply let the fire takeover, 
witness the way it coaxes 
the sugars out. 


Honor the mystery 
of transformation,
hear the sizzle 
of newborn stars. 
Finally, crown the burger
with these golden gems.
Sit and savor 
the way sweet lingers 
on the tip of your tongue 
like a truth. 
Know of meaning
and fierce magic, 
know to close your eyes 
and give pleasure more room
like a kiss.

Pat Phillips West’s poems have been published in various journals including Haunted Waters Press, Clover, a Literary Rag, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing and elsewhere. She is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee.