Seventeen months ago, I walked a formerly local candidate
Who had done her dissertation on instructional word art
Into this room to meet the provost, when she exclaimed
That her uncle, or perhaps it was her grandfather, had made
The giant, glass-topped meeting table that dominates the room.
A mosaic sandstone map of Utah is set into the wood
Beneath the glass. This afternoon in the dim room
With the shuttered blinds and the projector hanging
Perilously over the pieces shaping the heart of southern Utah,
I placed hands flat on the glass, feeling the hum
Of twenty minor campus administrators discussing
What should be done about fees and course outcomes,
And it dawned on me that the candidate had only come
To see the giant table her kin had made, never intending
To accept any offer of return here to her air-conditioned home.
I splayed my crooked fingers wider and noticed a brass plate
Fastened to my end of the massive geography. It read
"Utah table made under the direction," but the line below
Had been blurred away by however many bellies and laps
Had leaned against the edge, pressing some conversation.
Or she could have been lying, or been lied to by her kin,
I thought, about who actually created this particular state,
And reflections of the projector colored the glass.
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