Word of it comes whispered by a slippery thin section
of the paper, where the models pantomime unruffled tête-à-têtes
despite the absence of their blouses.
Each year when my familiar latches on them so intently
like a grand master plotting the white queen’s path,
like a baby trying to suckle a whole roast beef,
I ask: What, you salt block, are you dreaming
about being clubbed by thunderheads?—but he will not say.
Meanwhile Capricorn’s dark hours flabbed me,
uneasy about surrendering to the expert fitter
(even if the cupped hands were licensed and bonded)—
I had August in mind, seeing the pygmy goats at the county fair.
Now the sky is having its daily rain event
and the trees are having their hibernal bark event,
pretending they feel unruffled
despite the absence of their leaves. And we forget how they looked
all flouncy and green. Instead we regard
fearfully the sway of their old trunks.
Lucia Perillo, “January/Macy’s/The Bra Event” from Time Will Clean the Carcass Bones. Copyright © 2016 by Lucia Perillo. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Source: Time Will Clean the Carcass Bones (Copper Canyon Press, 2016)
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