Julia Ross

 
The week I keep my government job but you lose your gender

we endeavor to fuck the algorithm:
send each other nonsense phrases about sourdough
until our news feeds are a blur of dead-looking women
kneading in long skirts. You learn

twenty nine uses for discard
& give your starter a name: I mull the perils
of over-proofing & end my journey
before the first loaf. Soon the women

& their scoring knives will turn on us:
in ASMR-optimized whispers
they’ll assure us the revolution begins
at home. We’ll find ourselves nodding along

before we realize they mean less
like multicultural picture books
& more like throw away your birth control.
We’ll say things like this is how they get you

but still quietly feed the beasts
that bubble and ferment in glass jars
on our counters. It feels weirdly good
to be watching something grow.
 

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