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A Mealafter Jack Spicer 
You offer me хлеб, meaning bread but denser. There is a gnawing of teeth. We spread butter and jam. The cousins of your grandmother are ghosts now, dead because there was no wheat in the Ukraine. Here there are fields of grain, and shelves of sweet things. Your grandmother offers me мясо. I know this word means meat, because when a person speaks it their jaw opens wide and their teeth are bared, ready to strike into a piece of flesh. Your uncle offers me водка. A clear liquid is poured into my glass. The word he slurred, vodka, is barely distinguishable in my ears from вода, meaning water. The к, then, must be the poison in the water. A toast is made. I drink the glass in one gulp. All toasts are for the dead. All meals are for the living. Ben is the author of the nonfiction zine, Punk in NYC’s Lower East Side 1981-1991 (Microcosm Publishing, 2014), and the poetry chapbook, The Men Who Work Under The Ground (Keep This Bag Away From Children, 2012). His writing has appeared in publications such as The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, and Fairy Tale Review. #Imaginative #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Illustration #AMeal #Ukraine #Illustration #Glow Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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