Literalness is the devil’s weapon.
— Theodore Roethke
I’m late. I stand with one foot
planted in the crack of doom
and shake the other leg.
The dough in my wallet
is rising and I can’t
punch it down. All eyes
are on me. Those
from the potatoes look like
warts. The bees
queue up, each waiting
for its turn to sting me.
Pecans–or are they trilobites? –
infest this pan of brownies. A litany
of prehistoric fragrance whelms
the pattering of spatulas and spoons.
Upper Ordovician, by the tang:
bittersweet and faintly graptolitic.
Perhaps they left their stony beds
and sleepwalked here, mistook
the dark pungent batter for the silty
sludge of home. Atavism? Avatar?
Saline calls to saline through the mist.
Esther Greenleaf Murer lives in Philadelphia. She began getting serious about learing to write poetry at age 70. Her work has previously appeared in DM, as well as sundry other ezines; she has been featured poet in The Centrifugal Eye. Her first poetry collection, Unglobed Fruit, was published in 2011.