Men who’ve proved themselves grab her attention, and she seizes theirs. One is married, one is almost divorced, another lives with his lover for years and even still. She’s calculating. She doesn’t mind the second hand.
She situates herself, then imagines: around her, the circle drawn with a protractor, extending her strange reach. Geometry is a question of shape, size, and position. She angles for what she wants. Her ratio of self to other is fractured.
She hates some things, and the men know this equilaterally. She pretends that she likes what they like, and they pretend too. She assumes they find her obtuse appreciation of these things charming, and they want to be charmed. The silence is golden.
Anna Leahy has authored the books of poetry Aperture, Constituents of Matter, and Tumor and co-authored others. Her essays and poetry have appeared in the Atlantic, Crab Orchard Review, and The Southern Review. She directs the MFA program in Creative Writing at Chapman University, edits the international journal TAB, and curates the Tabula Poetica reading series. See more at amleahy.com.
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