GREEN ONIONS

by Ryn Gargulinski

When I chop
green onions I
think of you the
technique you learned in
cooking school about
peeling off the layers to get to
the good stuff nestled deep
inside – when I

said it wastes half the onion you asked
did I like such things that were
scratchy and bland – which is what

happened to our relationship we
stopped laughing stopped trusting you
pretended to have a job at some restaurant but just
hid around the corner as I took the

train to work – but some
fond stuff is still
nestled deep inside – in that
tasty plump core called
nostalgia.

The Last Place You Look

by Andrew Ulanowski

I remember
When my father was alive
And the Cubs
Had players like
Ernie Banks,
Billy Williams,
Ron Santo
And the coach
Was Leo Durocher.
One year
My Dad gave me a baseball;
My favorites
Had signed it
But it was a fake.
No matter.
It was my Dad’s heart
With Little scribbles
On it.
I used to think
It lost

But I just looked
And it’s here
In my heart
Right where he left it . . .


Read more Ulanowski poetry under his pen name Raul Aqua at Sribd.com/Raul Aqua

NOSTALGIA

by Ryn Gargulinski

I sometimes pine for
strange things like a
colored candy necklace that would
quickly stain your skin or the trek we’d
take to buy them from the
cottage to the gas mart past the
quarry where the frogs rot in the days
before quarries were fenced off in the days
before sunshine could cancer you in the days
before heartbreak before loss
of friends and pets the days
where you didn’t even care (when)
a necklace stained
your skin.

Read more Rynski poetry at Scribd.com/rynski.