2 Poems

Anna Gill

There’s Always A Better Dough

It has less to do with
    the flour, water, yeast
and more to do with heat—
    the last thing you do
can lose it, the baking
    and the breaking are so
close, but the cracks are growth,
    not faults, and steam is essential.

The work is slow but patience
   gifts endless hours for
working the grains with soft
    slow strokes, coaxing dusty 
to density. Before I knew bread
   as intimately as I do now, I 
thought it was the chemistry of
    the dough that would sow 
a surer product. 

Yet each loaf I formed fell 
   flaccid between my fingers; flour 
clouded my eyes; the spent mixture, 
   sticking to my skin, 
would tease my flesh like a rock 
   skimming a dull surface.

I have learned things, though, 
   such a volume of moist
mass will weigh on one, no
   butter or oil could slide through
life the way I have done, cleaning messes
   like the scraping of a tongue.

What should I do if at the end 
   the loaf is not the fruit 
I labored for? Sometimes, 
   the heat of the knife
when I finally cut
   into the warm thickness–
the oven’s kiss still 
   melting on my lips–
is my only release. 

---

She Gives Good Service

after Erin Belieu

I’ve known the satisfaction of 
a thousand perfectly cleared tables–

I shed my degrees and honors for the glory
of a dozen years in city restaurants
where swollen knees and denouncing alcohol
were, typically, the only signs of progress.

An Eden of tastes where excitement abounded:
the splendor of a ten-hour shift
when no one – even the kitchen – yelled at you;
getting palmed a hundred that you needed to make rent;
sipping champagne slipped from a rude table’s bottle.

I shall not forget the hard work,
the after hours in dive bars or dimly-lit 
bathroom stalls that reaffirmed our zest
and kept us from real rest, spending every
dime, hours of poor tips, on late-night diner
burgers or a split fare to Noodletown.

I woke up each year a little less, the maximum
lifespan below the minimum wage.
Finally, in crisis, I was essential—for a moment—
making less than ever but important.

Now, empty tables scattered on the sidewalks
block traffic, recalling space we used to fill.

---

Anna S. Gill is a writer from rural Virginia. She is interested in exploring topics of food politics, family, and sexuality in her work. She now lives in Portland, Oregon with her partner and two demanding cats.