You almost decided not to have the abortion.

you remember looking at another model

in the dressing room in your medium-sized

town filled with girls with medium-sized dreams

who talked big; maybe one day

making it to New York City, seeing your face

on the cover of a magazine going to parties

where all the beautiful people went, where you would be

wearing a red dress and smiling in the corner watching

the people.  One girl was a tall blond, legs forever but a mediocre

face –or so the local photographer told her–

that she could never make it that she should stay where she was, where

she would always be.  You remember watching her as she leaned over

the make -up counter all her paraphernalia spread out before her: the bottles

and powders, the brushes, whatever magic could take her

where she wanted to go.  You almost decided then watching her

watching you in the reflection of the mirror, the bright lights

illuminating your face behind hers, holding you,

still as a picture.