Jemima jawing at me in the dark,
the box of mix thumping and jumping
on the table in tune to her swiveling hips,
setting my dream kitchen aglow with
a grin as bright as Jeanne Crain’s pinky ring.
I don’t want to hear anything she’s got to say.
I know she’s no good, can’t be trusted
near buttermilk and a mixing bowl.
Slick as bacon grease sizzling
on a cast iron skillet,
she’ll say anything until you turn her loose,
star-crossed prisoner of cardboard, corn syrup solids
and yellow dye Number 5.
She’s lost her kerchief and a few dozen pounds
but she’s half witch and I know it —
no stack of pancakes in all the world
can make me change my mind.