Two Poems

Mary L. Allen

Flour —

  It’s amazing how a gust of air redistributes it.

Cream —

  I’d rather melt the butter and sugar together. Easier.

Leavening —

             Is there a difference between baking powder and baking soda?

 Isn’t yeast an infection not discussed in polite company?

Scales —

  When I think of scales in the kitchen, I think of fish.

Sift —

  I’ve worked a dig and panned for gold. Enough!

Knead —

  I failed Play-Doh 101.

Proof —

  Quod erat demonstrandum.

I lift my lids and all is born again.

My fears and frights roar forth, a suffocating feeling,

and blackness, arbitrary blackness, gallops in.

I close my eyes, count black sheep, ten by ten,

but anxieties return like raucous church bells pealing.

I lift my lids and all is born again.

Ghosts descend, bringing all their kin,

I see no hope, no way of healing,

as blackness, arbitrary blackness, gallops in.

I rise, pluck Moby Dick from out the den,

return to bed, a proven way of dealing.

I lift my lids that all is born again.

I peruse the prose of Melville’s pen,

soporific text, and feel my senses keeling,

as blackness, arbitrary blackness, gallops in.

I yawn and lay the tome aside, begin to settle in,

then check the clock that casts time up to the ceiling,

and lift my lids when light is born again,

as daylight, welcome daylight, gallops in.