What got you out of bed in the night to finally care for yourself?

I say this with somewhat of a cough and possible chest infection.

Sitting in my hotel room in Ludlow,and thinking about how for so long I was bedbound with PTSD and my parents did everything for me.

And I'm still not perfectly well, but my point is that food can be such a great metaphor in poetry.

You know what?

I'm secretly wanting to read for issue two a poem about someone finally making the best dish they've ever made.

And I'm going to leave that with you for now.

And I would love you to comment or email me or whatever with what you might come up with.

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