Notes About The Poem
Artwork by James Valvis
The Promotion
It was never about the suit,
the charcoal stitching,
the pocket square that folds itself,
the red tie I swore was alive.
At first, it just stood there—
hooves crossed, ears like knives
stabbing into the conference room light.
It never spoke, but no one dared speak over it.
The org charts bent to its gaze.
Quarterly losses shrunk like timothy hay
waiting too long for sun.
I kept my hungry eyes on the llama,
after all, its black-marble stare could polish
a version of the best vision of myself, if I let it:
animal energy tugging at my own red tie,
my voice cracking like a glass ceiling
when I pitched the last idea I was proud of.
Now the llama knows my name.
It signs my emails
and leaves fur in my throat
when I try to say no.
On Tuesdays,
it stands too close
to the mirror in the breakroom,
straightening its tie with my hands,
licking the salt from neck—
its muzzle smelling like a ferment
of wet grass and my sweat.
The interns whisper that it’s a myth,
but they’ve all stopped wearing red.
I now sit at the head of the table,
rubbing my hindquarters with two toes
on the scale, protecting my own
wall-eyed stare. The suit fits better
than I thought.
You can see everyone from here—
their necks, their ties,
the slow nodding of skulls.
The llama was never absurd.
It’s they who look strange now.
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