Needless to Say
OUCH, SAYS SEPTEMBER. It's bad enough to have breasts, all fibrous and calcified, but for them to ache, calendrically, doesn't seem fair.
It's not, I reply, discarding my empathy like the nine of clubs when I'm certain she's holding nines. But it could be worse, couldn't it? If the moon were less predictable, then you'd worry every time, not knowing. You'd be like the first railroad bridge across the Mississippi and here's the Effie Afton bearing down, its pilot house like a dark, undiagnosed tumor. I mean, we're talking years of medical mimicry here, blame and argument, hearings in Congress. Next thing you know, there are more barges than you can shake a stick at and your body's no longer yours. Your breasts are in someone else's hands.
Ouch, says September, redundantly.
Ouch is right, I say. Gin.
Phillip Sterling's most recent books include "Amateur Husbandry," a series of micro-fictions narrated by the domestic partner of a yellow horse (Mayapple 2019) and "Short on Days," a series of February aubades, released from Main Street Rag in June 2020, after several months of quarantine.