"Four."
"Already it's beginning to seem that I cannot avoid the subject
of this nation's interminable abuse of another's remains.
But I would have preferred to write something
along the lines of a poetic essay
on comparative underworlds.
For the past few years, I've taught a course
on underworld lit, which has frequently
proven to be a disappointment both to myself
and to the students, some in headscarves, some occasionally
dressed in fatigues, who've registered
for the seminar in order to satisfy their humanities
requirement.
It confirmed my hatred of epics, and reaffirmed my faith
that I will never study non-western literature.
The instructor is fairly intelligent and enthusiastic
about his brand of writing, but is unreceptive, even
intolerant of anything that is not a poem,
or a poem in prose form.
Made me question things, including
the value of higher learning.
It occurred to me that by writing about teaching
I might learn something.
There would be assignments, a midterm,
and a final examination, followed
by a series of timed detonations,
and the collapse of an abandoned complex under stars.
I needed to find my footing in the order of things.
And because I know almost nothing about the world,
I decided to work my way up from below."