Julia says:
while flexing her mussels,
one hundred and forty-four pounds,
beards-trimmed, soaked,
salivating salt,
down her forearms,
you can never have enough butter,
throwing a stick, on the hot pan,
casually melting into the steam,
curling from the small curves of,
her shoulders,
carefully rolling a massage,
of rosemary, garlic, and cream,
on a wooden, oiled, cutting board,
husks, discarded to the left,
where they fall, bending over,
catching on her jeans,
worn like an apron,
tied, tight, she,
holds the lid down,
turning the heat up,
blue eyes waiting-
for them to scream.
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