Easter Egg; Natasha’s perfume

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