I. Prepositions

Carl B. at Yale renounces faith in God
At nine-oh-eight a.m. His T.A. dyed
Her "do" an orange hue instead of auburn
As on the Clairol carton, and is gone
Punk against her will. Faith is brittle, friends;
Broken promises of beauty, splitting ends,

And inner office infatuations.
The T.A. never pinpoints his intentions,
So files no charge of gender harassment.
He weeps to see her tangerine-like tint
As pilgrims weep when Mary reappears
In Wal-mart pumps. Something's insincere

About belief in netherworld or afterlife--
Hereafter prepositions. Husband, wife
Take the other better, worse, for granted.
Take and leave their lovers, disenchanted.
There is no God or wingéd seraphim.
The girl's beyond, not over, under him.


II. Premonitions

Sue B. renounces faith in postal service
At twelve-fourteen p.m. She has a choice
To fix the plumbing rather than her teeth,
Or cap bicuspids. Let the cellar seep.
The children need new shoes or maybe soles.
They have been walking in, not on, puddles.

His check is late. Atheism has its perks,
A dim Darwinian logic that lurks
In elite habitats: Man mounts T.A.
To cinch survival of his DNA,
Relinquishing descendants to the state.
His singular role is to propagate

And publish his memoirs in The Atlantic.
Sue has lost her God, and now is frantic.
This afternoon her sons come home from school
To play their Segas in the basement pool
While mommy loiters at a campus tavern
And wonders when her ex will wander in.


III. Propositions

He wanders in--a mere coincidence.
An atheist obeys the laws of chance,
Rejects commandments like Thou shalt not
Covet nor commit adultery nor sit
Beside a Wiccan with Metallica hair.
The woman snubs him, swivels in her chair

And shields mascara eyes in mock salute
To some unseen power. Her pain's acute
And emanates from keen embarrassment.
If one must die, why not from harassment
In front of colleagues, students, strangers?
Why not release the canonized angers

In front of his spouse, whom she finally spies
In the corner booth? Sue is masking her eyes
In the same sad salute as the punk T.A.
Who started this, believing she was made
In the image of those Clairol models,
Their miraculous hair like an angel's.


Contents

 Michael

 Bugeja