I want to be a woman who bakes beautiful
towering cakes, like Marie Antoinette’s hair,
burying my face in SwansDown Flour—
can’t you smell the angel’s hands who sifted this?

Bring me baker’s tools! Sensuous,
heart-shaped pans, doilied
trays, pink egg beaters
beckoning
for a tongue.

My lover left me for a fat woman and
God help me, I understand why.

Come closer, lick a tarnished spoon
before it all melts away,
like Madame’s hair.