In truth, I love to bake
in the kitchen
where I supposedly belong
as archetypical mother figure
curing the world with her flour, her sugar, her eggs,
add yeast like hope to rise and pray
that nothing catches fire this time.

I am pink haired baker lady.
I am orange frizz, feathers in my fur.
I am progressive teenage dreamer
chopping Recess cups to garnish a new kind of cake.
I am the future of orange frizz and chocolate feathered food.
I am the third-billion-
three-hundred-one-million-
one-hundred-twelve-thousand-
eighty-sixth to last
woman in the kitchen,
uncertain of whether or not
I wish to relinquish my post.