He left the room, assured of his immortality-- or was it just his cologne? I once wanted his money--not really his money, but the freshly minted coins of reason. His hands smelling like prime numbers. I once wanted his swagger, his fame but without the dental work. I'm reminded that my destiny was to stand reflected in the infinity-inducing mirrors with other women in restaurant bathrooms who pat their hair, make that little moue with their lips; who return to the tables of men, their hands wet, body hairs galvanized like filaments of iron. Strange how everything is orderly even in dissipation when leaves blizzard the pavement. I don't see them land but their fall, the event of it, is still present, almost invisible.
Winner of the 2001 Felix Pollack Prize in Poetry. Copyright © 2001 by Cathy Colman. Reprinted by permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. All rights reserved.