Lara Egger
Carte du Jour
The lighting here in purgatory
is hopeless. Meanwhile, Rick’s being radiant
at the car wash again, dispensing his usual star dust,
and instead of taking notes, I’m wondering:
what’s for lunch? Some people can make
a sandwich out of anything—
opals, the Macarena, a ghost’s shoelaces.
To improve the quality of today’s despair
I wear oversized sunglasses
and pretend I have somewhere important to be.
Riding hell’s Ferris wheel, for example,
or sweeping floors at the genius factory.
My invention requires cigarettes, freshly dried blood,
and a nail gun. The goal is to lay AstroTurf
and have it grow into real grass.
Rick says every failed poem is preparation
for romance. What he said about masochism,
I promised not to repeat. The lighting’s ridiculous,
and nothing’s speaking to me on this menu.
I flag the server down, send the Beaujolais back.
It doesn’t pair well with my fish.
A Moving Scene at the Wax Museum
What are you hiding under your coat?
Personally, I’m hiding a fascinating aura of mystery.
Also, a small orchard. Disconcerting facts
about mammals. Do you have a hand?
Can I hold it? Whatever you do,
don’t look inside the bathtub, though.
There’s an opinionated fox in there,
a fox with bad manners.
Mostly, I want to kiss you
but first I’d like to know
how you organize your spice rack.
Logic doesn’t concern me.
I am not one for perimeters or tiny icebergs.
I have extravagant ideas on Sundays.
Yesterday, I visited the wax museum
and practiced asking for forgiveness.
Your mystique, the fox says, is all pun and no poultry.
An unforeseen tango, the sky purples at the edges
in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
Let go of my hand now.
Do you still believe in coincidences?
A Flash of Beauty
I hit my head. I hit it hard. Then the egg on my forehead hatched, and a baby bird fell out. I fed
the bird Ritz crackers soaked in milk. I promised I would never ask it to sing at the hog farm or
pay it to cry at funerals. Such things, I know from experience, can kill a bird’s spirit. When I
refused to believe in magic, the bird rubbed its wings together and made fire. When I questioned the meaning of life, the bird shrugged and said the moon is a tyrant riding a unicycle, so I called my friend Bill in Chicago instead. Bill didn’t have much experience with birds, but he had an advanced degree in philosophy, and I trusted his opinion. As I was talking to Bill on the phone, I observed the bird admiring its feathers in the bathroom mirror. My head began to throb. Outside,
it was snowing.
Lara Egger is the author of two full-length poetry collections, Flop Era (Pitt Poetry Series, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2025) and How to Love Everyone and Almost Get Away with It (Juniper Prize Winner, University of Massachusetts Press, 2021). An Australian native, Egger now lives in Boston where she co-owns a Spanish tapas bar.
Banner Art:
Photo by Kevy Michaels, Unsplash, 2021
