The Brasserie

October 2024 | poetry

Today’s sky is a weak imitation of blue.

She slips in the back door, a line cook

at the brasserie in Saint-Germain-des-Prés,

well-known for duck, well-known

for drifters and dreamers, lovers long gone

and those newly found. The man at the bar

will lie his way into any woman’s good graces

but that’s not her problem today, even though

they talk about him in back in many languages.

Duck perfectly rendered, apricots

tender and jam-like as they let go

of summer to tantalize with their scent

before the lunch rush,

haricots verts amandine butter-basted,

and if she has a few extra minutes, help

the pastry chef with crème brȗlée.

Curtains sweep open to her childhood

cooking with maman before the postcard—

dashed off in pencil—au revoir my child,

be strong, love well, you will always

be in my heart. She grabs a small glass

of almost-going-bad Bordeaux

and a bummed-off-a-bad-boy cigarette,

takes a quick break outside,

torn between the touching young words

of that postcard, and the yelling going on

in the kitchen.

She wears drab clothes one could call

military castoffs, and clogs, the footwear

of all kitchen personnel. She walks

the streets of the city before her shift,

goes to the markets, feeds heels of bread

to the fish in many different parks,

watches a gulls wings widen

in the coming-up sun, and greets

the old men playing morning chess,

espresso carts waiting to serve them when

they break—she plants a maternal kiss

on each man’s forehead, she’s known them for years.

They will always be in her heart, even the ones

whose weary eyes are shut against the world.

By Tobi Alfier

Tobi Alfier’s credits include Arkansas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Cholla Needles, Gargoyle, James Dickey Review, KGB Bar Lit Mag, Louisiana Literature, Permafrost, Washington Square Review, and War, Literature and the Arts. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).

Lounging at Wilton Manors

October 2024 | poetry

Hook mouthed; a cadaver turns to kiss me—

Danny—adrift through skin, grabs

my filament of fishing line, pulling back

to bloom. He wears a lesion,

maybe three, dark and almost blued

to midnight, tells me it’s a birthmark

I’ve forgotten. The dream is 1986—

when death was stored in a dimpled

bottle, amethyst, scented, Halston Z-14

in every cabinet. I wake, find myself

poolside with shadows of old friends.

Gifts of age creep pockets—cock rings,

magnifier wipes, phones programmed

with reminders. Tired of survival,

dried like air cured cod, I flee Danny’s

pancake-hidden lesions, step into the afternoon.

Timeless scrotum by the pool, I swim

in yet another hour, outdoor showers and cabana

crypts. Lounging, friends and I are varicose,

a clot of sixties, seventies, a murder

of anniversaries breaking loose

and traveling to the heart. Time repeats,

a second AM/PM pillbox. I’m losing them.

I’m losing them all, again.

Robert Carr

Robert Carr is the author of Amaranth, published by Indolent Books, and two full-length collections published by 3: A Taos Press – The Unbuttoned Eye and The Heavy of Human Clouds. His poetry appears in many journals and magazines, including the Greensboro Review, the Massachusetts Review, and Shenandoah. Forthcoming collections include Phallus Sprouting Leaves, winner of the 2024 Rane Arroyo Chapbook Series, Seven Kitchens Press; and Blue Memento, from Lily Poetry Review Books. Additional information can be found at robertcarr.org