The Gypsy Girl on the Champs-Élysées
and winter, and her eyes rolled back so only
the whites showed. The leg not hidden by her
rust-colored skirt was twisted like old rope.
The hand holding mine tugged me forward and,
looking up, I felt a spray of sympathy, she does it
for sympathy, then Chanel No. 5, and bright lights,
and the scraping of hangers over metal rack-bones.
As my aunt joined the others circling the circles
of hissing fabric, I disappeared between the wool
coats, pulling them like hair curtains around me.
Squatting, making my skirt into a little bell, I hid
my two perfect legs.