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By Clark Zlotchew

Hands all calloused and scarred,
drooping moustache, reading glasses,
aroma of tobacco and aftershave.
cigar butt stuffed into pipe,
hovering clouds of greyish smoke.
Grandpa.

He would bounce me on his knee
while bawling out a rhythmic tune
Hey! Tuli, tuli, tuli. Hey! Tuli, tuli.

When I grew older, he’d regale me 
with stories of his travels, his adventures, 
his life, in the Old Country.

He had traveled 
in heat and in cold,
in rain and in snow,
dusty trails and roads of mud,
hauling sheets of fragile glass,
in a horse-drawn wagon to jounce
over bumps on the road,
dodging pits in his path,
along Ukraine’s plains, so vast,
to carve windows to see outward,
to shape mirrors to see inward.

Grandma spoke of courageous deeds
he was too modest to relate:
Fists and bottles and blood
to protect a young woman
from vodka-soaked beasts
garbed in human clothing,
wolves in sheepish wool.
Yet he was the kindest man I knew.
A hard-working man.
A great man. 
A hero. 
My Grandpa.

Years slid by, so fast, too fast,
steel blades on slickety polished ice.
We talked, we chatted, ideas 
flowed from one to the other,
streams combining into one deep pool,
wars, nations, people, languages,
and even me. 
He cared about 	
my work, my studies,
my adventures, my thoughts. 
My life.

Damnable demon Dementia cast 
its baleful mind-clouding shadow,
its filthy smothering shroud over him,
concealing what made him him. 
I traveled to shave his grizzled face,
leaving his nicotine-stained moustache intact.

He no longer spoke to me 
or even uttered my name.
I wondered did he even know me. 
I wondered but feared to know.
One day I took heart and asked,
“Do you know who I am?”
I held my breath, awaiting his answer.
His indignant response, “Of course, 
you're the boy who shaves me." 

The boy who shaves me!

I turned to gaze out the window 
to conceal my moistened eyes.
The sky turned from bright blue to dark grey.
The air felt heavy, electrically charged.
A storm threatened.

By Aaron Suranofsky

Love sounds like beef jerky,
sometimes a quick snack—tangy and tender,
squeezing juice over your gums
as you stir the ooze of savory slime.

Sometimes dry, grinding, sucking out a shallow
taste that gets stuck in your teeth,
that you might lick at later
when it’s had time to soften.

Sometimes expensive for a bag of meat
you chew into too fast,
leaving a film in your throat,
a guilty migraine, and high blood pressure.

But sometimes it’s a slab of fresh venison.
A pair of sweat-stank muscles strip skin,
craft it from a wild passion, put it under a smoke blanket.
Finish to a filthy whisper of spices.

Your mouth ignites, gently chewing, a tongue massage
coaxes a salty taste slurped into every taste bud,
seeping phlegm thick sparks down your neck
before swallowing, satisfied.

By Hannah Ruttan

Eight weeks old and
full of life.
A small slinky body with
soft black fur,
huge puppy paws,
folded-over ears that flop when you jump,
and the bright eyes
of a creature learning about the world.
Bright brown eyes that
pick out dark brown woodchips
and you chew on them until we notice.
Your black eyelashes
are probably five inches long,
and your little white teeth
are razor-sharp
and leave small bloody marks
on my fingers.
You grab everything in sight,
dad’s white New Balance sneakers,
mom’s purple fuzzy slippers,
and old wilted leaves from
the cucumber plants of a
warm summer’s past.

By Hannah Ruttan

Bright red sauce splattered
across the stainless steel
cooler doors and plastic
black handles.
White chocolate so viscous
that there is a chorus of jokes
whenever we have to use it.
Those are the best nights,
where we can joke about
some things on the floor
and everything else
behind closed wooden doors.
That goddamn mustard,
coating every inch of the paper wrapper
and clear food service gloves.
At least the pay makes up
for the dark yellow stains on my blue jeans.
The pungent, spicy smell of Sriracha
mixed with mayonnaise and peppers.
Corporate named it
Boom Boom sauce.
Damn it,
another ketchup packet on the floor.

By Ambria Richardson

There is a personal satisfaction 
In saying the word.
When pronounced, 
one’s tongue lightly taps 
the soft palette.
The abdomen moves 
towards the spine,
as the diaphragm 
contracts sharply 
to push out 
a small puff of air 
with which to carry 
the singular syllable.
And the lips come to rest, 
in an almost perfect circle.
It is a powerful word.
With it, one should have the complete capability 
to refuse anything.
It gives one the illusion of control over their personhood.

It is unfortunate though,
because I started to forget one crucial piece of information:
for any word to have meaning, there must be someone who listens.