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by Lucinda Trew

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the first Thanksgiving
like the first of everything
was difficult after grandmother died

following a long lean year of mourning
we gathered to bake pies, hold hands
pass plates and feast

in the kitchen, aunts bustled, bumping
backsides in a dance of raised mitted hands
relaying Pyrex dishes to the timer’s ding

a coven of aproned witches wiping
steam-fogged glasses and the sweet-salty
tears of laughter and loss

it wasn’t until the bird was basted
and done, plattered and preened with rosemary
sprigs, that someone remembered the gravy

grandmother’s secret, sacred gravy –
a matriarch’s chore, no back-of-the-jar
instruction, no time for watch-and-learn

who, it was whispered and sighed, might
step up to the pan and channel the lost art
of blending jewel-like drippings into holy glaze?

there was a hush and huddle, a kitchen conclave
and by way of acclamation, the eldest daughter
was ordained to remove fat and grease, deglaze
with wine, gently loosening brown bits aswirl

in the depths of a roasting dish, whisking
a bereavement balm into being as we hovered
held breath, awaiting the ascent of carcass
and sweetmeats into holy elixir

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Lucinda Trew, author of What Falls to Ground (Charlotte Lit Press, 2025), is a poet rooted in the pine forests and red clay of North Carolina’s Piedmont. She is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, and recipient of Boulevard’s 2023 Poetry Contest for Emerging Poets. Her poems appear in Cagibi Literary Journal, The North Carolina Literary Review, Burningword Literary Journal, storySouth, and other journals and anthologies. 

by Jo Angela Edwins

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July 4, 2024

I just sliced a deep red tomato
grown in a kind man’s garden,
a gift he gave me today
out of his kindness, and I stacked
each slice on top of a piece
of white bread slathered
in Duke’s mayonnaise,
and I salted and I peppered,
and I topped it all with another
piece of white bread slathered
in Duke’s mayonnaise,
and I lifted the sandwich
and took a giant bite,
and the juices ran pink
and creamy down my chin,
and, yes, I am Southern-born
and raised by two Southerners
who were nowhere near perfect
but were decent at heart,
and they did not shove bitter vegetables
or hatred down my throat,
and I have no patience
for anyone I know
who would wish to make harder
the life of the kind man
who grew that tomato,
a man with brown skin
and another kind man
for a husband, and they
are Southern too, and if
the sharp knife of your vote
cast in pride or selfishness
cuts them or really anyone
until blood runs in the streets,
know that the knives of cruelty
cut both ways, and everyone’s blood
is the same deep shade of red,
and one day all of it may run
down the chins of the monsters
to whom you gave the tower keys,
and maybe then you’ll wonder
(or maybe not) in your own hurt
why the God you say you pray to
didn’t save you from yourself.

---

Jo Angela Edwins has published poems in over 100 journals and anthologies. She is author of the collection A Dangerous Heaven (2023) and the chapbooks Play (2016), and Bitten (2025). She has received awards from Winning Writers, Poetry Super Highway, the Jasper Project, and the SC Academy of Authors. She teaches at Francis Marion University in Florence, SC, and is the poet laureate of the Pee Dee region of South Carolina.

by Alexis Rhodes

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Double-take at the ad copy: Oh
it’s not about me. (A regular reminder
is necessary.)
Please note I am
Unavailable.
Emotional labor hours have hit their quota
and overtime is billed at a rate of
$6 million per hour or
my sanity.

I have picked too many
broken locks
and been disenchanted with the contents.

Sent my dragons to defeat offenders
and my minions returned
carrying their children.
I have raised many
many
children.

I am bitter and
Southern
like a mint julep.
Meant to be savored
but used for my
effect instead.

I am Unavailable and would rather
be left alone
condensation sweating into the porch table
leaving a ring
or a stain
all my own.

---

Alexis Rhodes (she/her) is a queer, polyamorous poet, playwright, and performer based in North Carolina. Her poetry has been described as raw and confessional, with just enough humor to lighten the mood. Alexis has been published with Action, Spectacle, Maudlin House, Blood+Honey, Wayfarer Magazine, and more, has forthcoming publications with Paddler Press, 1922 Review, Writers Resist, The Closed Eye Open, and more. She has completed five manuscripts and is submitting to presses. Alexis lives with her husband, two kids, and a hedgehog named Hedge. Instagram: @alexis_writes_things

by Albert DeGenova

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Albert DeGenova is a poet, publisher, teacher, and blues saxophonist.  He is the author of five books of poetry and two chapbooks. His most recent is Human Nature from Kelsay Books. He is the founder of After Hours Press and co-editor of After Hours magazine, a journal of Chicago writing and art, which launched in June of 2000. DeGenova received his MFA in Writing from Spalding University in Louisville, and is currently Executive Director of Write On, Door County. He splits his time between the metro Chicago area and Sturgeon Bay, WI. 

by Melissa Whiteford St. Clair

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She said, “Grits, I hate ‘em.”

The woman who’s battered copies of Bon Appetit magazine were just that, battered.
The dog-eared pages of juice cum wine-stained publications stacked on bookshelves
with the most favored recipes floating to the top of the pile.
Classic and contemporary dishes curated for cocktail parties and folded into family
dinners alike.
Presented to the table with pomp and circumstance ceremony.
Cue Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture in the background on the HiFi
The meager-budgeted, eager-to-please daughter-in-law offered up to this
Julia Child incarnate who ran her kitchen helping hands like U.S. military KP duty.
Hands that wanted to chop and dice and mince and squeeze fresh lemons for the finish
~ grits, as in shrimp-n-grits,
a Southern American staple this military spouse learned to finesse
doing time at duty stations in the Carolinas.
An entrée she supped on nightly her first trip to the west coast to San Diego.
With one wave of her well-manicured hands sheltered inside Playtex rubber gloves
which went straight to each jump rope toned hip, striking an indignant pose,
one expertly tweezed eyebrow raised, and plainly stated, “Grits, I hate ‘em,” then
properly went back to separating chicken wings into drums and flaps.
Her doe-eyed son’s wife crushed like the clove of garlic pulverized under the weight of
the chef’s knife for the teriyaki sauce.

Nor could she stomach the texture of its semolina cousin, couscous.

---

Founder of White Girl Advocacy, Melissa Whiteford St. Clair is a poet and social justice advocate. She shares her message of unity and creativity through interactive advocacy workshops, antiracism efforts, poetry readings, and talks. Melissa has published two books of poetry and a self-guided workbook. She is a contributing poet to the “South Carolina Bards Poetry Anthology” 2023, 2024, 2025. Her poem “Harriet’s Feat to Freedom” was selected for the Hilton Head Island Poetry Trail at Mitchelville. She was honored to be part of the Piccolo Spoleto Sundown Poetry Series in 2025. 

by Richard Allen Taylor

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Twelve-piece family meal, I blurt from my driver’s seat
toward the metallic croak of the order-taker’s voice.

A bad decision, made under duress of hunger,
condemns me to three, maybe four days

of fried chicken, enough to feed a family of six
in one sitting. Living alone, I will have my fill

of this savory standard of Southern cuisine
on Friday, then sate my flagging urge for the leftovers

no later than Saturday. By Sunday, the fridge will open
to cold bird, hacked to death, not in traditional

breasts, thighs, drumsticks, and wings, but into
unappetizing, unrecognizable shapes, not at all the way

Mom cut up her chickens. The once-crispy milk-battered
skin, having locked in the grease, will tempt me to convert

to vegetarianism. I should have seen this coming before
the cashier shoved that big cardboard box into my window

and gave it an extra push to get it past my face, too late
to change the order to two-piece dinner, please.

---

Richard Allen Taylor is the author of four poetry collections including Letters to Karen Carpenter and Other Poems (2023) from Main Street Rag Publishing Company. His poems, articles and reviews have appeared in many publications including Aeolian Harp, Flying South, Litmosphere, Pinesong, Tar River Poetry, Rattle, and Sheila-Na-Gig Online, among others. Several of his poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. A former review editor for The Main Street Rag,  and founding co-editor of Kakalak Anthology of Poetry and Art,  Taylor earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte and currently resides in Greer, South Carolina. 

by Jennifer Weiss

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Inspired by A Man Milling Cacao into Chocolate with a Metate and a Mano, by unidentified Spanish artist, circa 1680-1780 (NC Museum of Art Collection)

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You kneel at the altar of your work, roll up pristine sleeves,
power granite mano back and forth across metate
to crush cacao to bitter powder you blend with sugar,
fashion into oval candy for clergy, nobility, royalty.

At drizzly dusk you lumber home, the fragrant dust
of labor etched in calluses and countenance.
Your woman smiles, nods from the hearth where she stirs
a stew of onions, cabbage and potatoes for supper.

Across the darkened room, your babies slumber.
You crouch behind a curtain, trace beloved lips
with work-worn fingers, sample mounded breasts
more luscious than any confection consumed at court.

Rolling together, two become one; the patter and hum
of rain rinse away the grinding day with rhythmic thrum.

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Jennifer Weiss was awarded the 2022 NC State Poetry Prize. Her work has been featured in the NC Poetry Society Poetry in Plain Sight series and in Qu Literary Magazine, The NC Literary Review, Kakalak and The Main Street Rag. A lawyer and former state legislator, she volunteers in a Title I Elementary School and loves reading aloud to children. She lives in Cary, NC. Read more of her poetry at jenniferweisspoetry.com.