Emma Fuchs

When I grow up I want to be a young Julia Child

Posed on the precipice of Paris—a soup spoon halfway to my parted lips—a breath
away from incantation—spooning—in love—humidity twisting my hair like challah—
hot tin under bare feet—crawling from the hatched window—like a ripe plum—
a picnic on the rooftop, a prayer—give me an oven that lights with the first match
I strike—welcome all the fruits and gather all my friends—balance a bottle of white 
on the window ledge—it will chill with the evening and the party will swell 
until we forget—onions sweating on the stove top, mellowing 
and translucent—we never need wine to buttress the buzz— 
only for the reduction—I bow 
to doorways and windows—I bask in the smokestack skyline—I clap my hands
and flour sifts down to the streets below.