The Smoothie: Message from Paris

 

Mardelle Fortier

 

Surely after he made you a frappe

with java, ice cream, caramel,

bursting like suns across your senses

yet cooling you like silk moons—

You could fall for your barista.

 

Surely after he mixed you a drink:

rum, curacao, heavy cream

whispering its name (“Parisian Blond”)

while shaking the blend, pouring into chilled glass—

You would fall hard for your barista.

 

Surely after he made with his own hands—

stirring over

a hot stove the fondant

with clever elegant twists, into the surprise

of raspberry crème, knowing your every need—

You could fall irrevocably for your chocolatier.