What happened was we worked alone together
typesetting late one night, I flirted with him
to see what would happen
to test whether I could seduce
What happened was we went back to his place, his space
we kissed, we fondled
What happened was he excused himself
I sat alone on the couch
I still had my jacket on
I grew bored
I had already proved myself to myself, the proof of being there
What happened was he returned naked
he wore glasses
What happened was maybe I laughed
maybe I rolled my eyes
maybe I said, you’ve rushed ahead without me
What happened was he got dressed
he said I should leave . . . or I did
What happened was I found a photo of me on a bulletin board for anyone to see
my face was smashed out with a white sticky print
the size and shape of his thumb
–
Anna Leahy is the author of Aperture (poetry) and Tumor (nonfiction). Her latest chapbook is What Happened Was: (Harbor Editions, 2021). Her essays have won top awards from the Los Angeles Review, Ninth Letter, and Dogwood. She edits TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics.