Saint-Catherine Street

On an unfrosted storefront window, I seized a glimpse of my own reflection. The dimmed-lighted shop, acting as an unwitting mirror, attracted my deflection. As I move toward the glass, I failed to grasp, in terror, my delicate profile.

My head, melting as a watery modelling clay, carved from my feminist disarray, fell before the civilization I was trying to reconcile.

My soggy clothes didn’t warn pedestrians, nor did my obvious lack of capacity. I’m leaking on the sidewalk, through the street, but nobody, in a blink of lucidity, I’m leaking in the parking lot, through the seat, but nobody.