When I asked my professor for a letter,
he said What you should do is open a bar.
Jackson or Flint, maybe. Someplace rough.
He saw me. Knew that I’d never stop
being the kind of woman you can still call a broad,
that I would always be one minute
from starting shit
I lacked the sense to regret.
He knew my vowels would stay high in my nose,
that I’d wrinkle up like a smoker no matter what.
But he didn’t get that I’d already learned
how to be five animals at once.
How to survive in hostile places
like our old money campus,
like the low chair beside his desk.
He shot himself
before he could see me living
off the long con of a job just like his.
I’m not above believing I won.
