POETRY

By Jeffrey H. MacLachlan

Easter Egg

my fists   concuss    the easter        egg

   juice    beet  lips       of                christ

dis­charg­ing        from    the easter         egg

god    yolks         a     golden             tongue

Natasha’s Perfume

Soviet product, 1978

You are my ingenue to surveil

from this yel­lowed box

beneath parted blond bangs—

one side remains east, the other

west­ward. Streak lemon

drops of starlight

under each wrist to generate 

a big bang. I smell best

in the pas­sen­ger seat

of a Moskvitch station

wagon en route to a dinner

date. Look up so moon

rays twinkle Elena eyeshadow—
I flash a vodka grin

across both eyelids when
you blink. I envy any party official

who bursts from those Soviet lips,
tongue fizzing from that black hole. As the night

unfolds, never dis­close who ravished
your sallow skin first with a fem­i­nine mist. 

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 17.

Photo by Camille Brodard.