ASSIGNMENT FOR CANCELED CLASS:
Use the time to make sure that the Skube paper is DOUBLE DOG ready for prime time on WEDNESDAY. I TRIPLE DOG DARE YOU to bring it to the Writing Center! You won't do it. You're too much of a scaredy baby. Waa! Waa! You won't bring your paper to the Writing Center in J-105. You won't. It's open til 6 on M, T & W. You won't do it.
Oh...and read these poems. Be prepared to discuss on Wednesday.
Tell Them You Had a Mole Removed
her father said when she worried
what to tell the kids who’d been counting
on her for a group project in AP English.
(Though, in truth, Heart of Darkness made little sense,
bred only damp shadow behind her rib cage—
blind sister to the nausea, that penny-beneath-the-tongue
swirl of saliva that had twice sent her rushing
out of her 9:10 Spanish class.)
what to tell the kids who’d been counting
on her for a group project in AP English.
(Though, in truth, Heart of Darkness made little sense,
bred only damp shadow behind her rib cage—
blind sister to the nausea, that penny-beneath-the-tongue
swirl of saliva that had twice sent her rushing
out of her 9:10 Spanish class.)
The same excuse he wrote on the piece of paper
(yellow, lined, torn from the legal pad
which bore his own biology lectures)
she would unfold for her PE teacher later
that afternoon. And Ms. Garrett, who had been
her basketball coach freshman year, back when
Grace still wore braces and white cotton
underwear, would give her a knowing look
before pointing to the wooden bleachers.
(yellow, lined, torn from the legal pad
which bore his own biology lectures)
she would unfold for her PE teacher later
that afternoon. And Ms. Garrett, who had been
her basketball coach freshman year, back when
Grace still wore braces and white cotton
underwear, would give her a knowing look
before pointing to the wooden bleachers.
But that night, in her lilac-painted bedroom,
when she felt early October through the screen
of her dormer window—
the same one she had lifted
all those summer nights to slide
across the porch roof and
drop herself down,
flip-flops slapping gravel,
thighs warming,
lungs burning as she ran
to where she knew
his truck waited—
when she felt early October through the screen
of her dormer window—
the same one she had lifted
all those summer nights to slide
across the porch roof and
drop herself down,
flip-flops slapping gravel,
thighs warming,
lungs burning as she ran
to where she knew
his truck waited—
she wished for a square of gauze to remove,
black stitches to trace, and later a scar,
risen like a white skeleton, something
she might trace again and again.
black stitches to trace, and later a scar,
risen like a white skeleton, something
she might trace again and again.
Oysters
When he lost his job, and a woman
they both agreed was cold and shallow
and grossly privileged, though victimized
in her own mind, got a very, very
good job, and—in the same week—
their close friend’s newborn
was diagnosed with a condition
that causes tumors of the eye,
which may or may not blind the child for life,
they went out for oysters and martinis
they couldn’t afford and parsed
the indiscriminate distribution
of … they couldn’t name what it was
they were naming. Happiness? No,
they knew the woman with the job
wasn’t happy, would never be, but lacked
the inner resources to realize this was so.
Fortune, the wrong word, too, something
from a centuries-old novel
where character names correspond to, well,
character: Mr. Snide plotted; Mrs. Fairweather
tucked the children in at night. He suggested
fate or destiny but both seemed too mythical.
By then they were on their second dozen;
the blind, shapeless animals lay exposed
on their communal deathbed of ice,
not suffering, the man and woman thought
together but separately, because
the species didn’t have the instruments to understand
they were suffering. The drinks were strong,
the world stubborn but scrutable—
all night they searched for a word, as if it would help.
they both agreed was cold and shallow
and grossly privileged, though victimized
in her own mind, got a very, very
good job, and—in the same week—
their close friend’s newborn
was diagnosed with a condition
that causes tumors of the eye,
which may or may not blind the child for life,
they went out for oysters and martinis
they couldn’t afford and parsed
the indiscriminate distribution
of … they couldn’t name what it was
they were naming. Happiness? No,
they knew the woman with the job
wasn’t happy, would never be, but lacked
the inner resources to realize this was so.
Fortune, the wrong word, too, something
from a centuries-old novel
where character names correspond to, well,
character: Mr. Snide plotted; Mrs. Fairweather
tucked the children in at night. He suggested
fate or destiny but both seemed too mythical.
By then they were on their second dozen;
the blind, shapeless animals lay exposed
on their communal deathbed of ice,
not suffering, the man and woman thought
together but separately, because
the species didn’t have the instruments to understand
they were suffering. The drinks were strong,
the world stubborn but scrutable—
all night they searched for a word, as if it would help.
JAMES DAVIS MAY
Remaining Semester Calendar:
Wednesday: Digital Writing Assignment Synthesis Day!
Monday, November 24: Final Paper/Portfolio Presentation
Monday, December 1: Writing Workshop: All Pending Papers & Adrienne's Last Lecture
Wednesday, December 3: Family Conferences
Monday, December 8: Final Questions & Work-shopping for the Final
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