January/Macy’s/ The Bra Event

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.