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).
