Master, master

Now that february insults me more
and the room is too small
to contain that pitiless professionalism,
i see you scattering seeds of tomorrow
as you rubbed our backs
with another degree,
and it is strange not to hear
another lesson on hopeless portuguese.

it was inexcusably depressing
to hear that poetry doesn't sell books
simply because i will never be prepared 
to what is mere reasonable.
that weighed in my mind
like a blown dandelion,
like an omminious headline
in the morning.

you invented an angry god
and a multitude of flies in my soup.
you - the next doctor spreading
taciturn theories,
you - the sexless combination
of a professor with a porn star.

i will never regret the fire
burning the serious furniture
nor the delight of criticism.
what we had was rare and dangerous.
i know i will miss our respectable battles
and the man who taught me more
about myself than i could expect.

you couldn't bid us farewell in flesh
and i know it was painful for you
to choose.
all i hope is that you can miss the illicit thrill
i caused you long before you disenchanted poetry.
(that will suffice)

karla bardanza

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