Portrait With Yeast
For Ruth Foley
For seven days she watches the metamorphosis
from champagne grapes to white froth.
She feels like she’s in fourth grade again
lifting the glass jar from the terrarium and inhaling
moss and the dampness of a world she wanders
into and makes her own. Now here in her own home
within the walls she had scrubbed and painted sea glass
green she sprinkles the yeast she had created herself
into glass bowls, adds flour, salt, cardamom.
She pats the messy dough until it forms itself,
slips it into the greased pan. She sets
the timer and imagines the moment when she will cut
into the still warm bread, butter it, and watch as her
husband wordlessly brings so much of her into his mouth.
Self-Portrait As Dragonfly
Attired in black and white this year, I wear
the formal evening all season long. Last year
I wore a modern metallic so blue it hurt
the sky’s eye. He leads me around by my
neck, holding my lacy clasp. How his
cummerbund cinches my back.
My wings made out of translucent glass
stitched together like some cathedral window.
My wings rotate and move forward.
With each stroke I use the unsteady air studded
with the energy of a diamond’s burn. When I rest,
my wings mold together above my back.
No other insect wears such a darkness in their wings.
Carol Berg’s poems are forthcoming or in Weave, Pebble Lake Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, qarrtsiluni, blossombones, and elsewhere. Two chapbooks, Ophelia Unraveling (dancing girl press), and Small Portrait and the Woman Holding A Flood In Her Mouth (Binge Press), are forthcoming.