Perfection Letter (V)
When you said,
“my hand is a stanza”
it really offended some
of the committee
so we felt justified in
cutting it off without
anesthesia, and felt you
responded poorly
to mutilation. Teaching
is no easy berth, my dear purser!
The fact that you are a mother,
was looked upon without favor
when you offered to make
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
for faculty lunches.
Surely you know that we are
a peanut-free facility! Nonetheless,
you were this close
(I am now holding a bagel
between thumb and forefinger
to indicate the inch between
employment and your despair) –
indeed, this would have been a
fine position for you, someone
who appreciates a student body
schooled in the nuances of secret
handshake, password and ritual
hazing: don’t dunk when drunk!
Haven’t you learned by now? If not
for the committee member
who swears you dated his brother
and dumped him, I quote,
“like a goddam hot potato,”
we would have reacted to you
favorably – I can’t compliment
that interview suit enough,
but the shoes –
what were you thinking?
How could a pump possibly
be appropriate in time of war
or during the gymnastics floor exercise?
Next time, choose a nice
sling-back. This makes us understand:
you are serious, incapable
of containing your passion
for scholarship within the confines
of your body. A reminder:
we like a soupcon
of interpretive dance – it reminds
us of our youth in the circus,
when we ate fire
and wore a nose.