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