Denise Duhamel

Denise Duhamel's most recent poetry collection is Queen for a Day: Selected

and New Poems (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2001). An assistant professor

at Florida International University in Miami, she is the recipient of a 2001

National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Poetry. She can be reached at

sedna61@aol.com.

THE DENISE DUHAMEL FAN CLUB

There were a few years when Nick and I thought

we just couldn't adjunct anymore. We'd sit at night

around piles of student papers and poems

until one of us would say, There's got to be a better way.

We're creative people, right? I used to ask Nick

Can't you go be a gogo boy at Deja Vu? or whatever

strip joint we were living next to at the time.

And, of course, I was only kidding, but if he would have said

OK, maybe I'll go in tomorrow and if it's not too gross...

I probably would have felt relief.

Then, one night,

after reading a few too many comma splices, Nick said, I've got it!

I'll start the Denise Duhamel Fan Club!

He figured he needed 3000 fans at $15 dollars a year

(We'd keep $10 and the extra $5 would cover his operating expenses.)

There'd be two annual mailings, the basic photo

and fact sheet, my likes and dislikes. He'd get a computer program

to keep track of all the club members' birthdays

so I could send their bonus birthday cards

like Johnny Matthis sends to his fans.

Hell, he'd cut up my wedding dress and send every fan

a piece. I'd cut off my own hair and send every fan

a clump. He'd promise club members would see my poems first--

sneak previews before they appeared in Chiron Review

or Free Lunch. I could probably even e-mail those

and save the postage. We could hold a special contest

for fan club members only--a raffle in which the winner

would be able to take me to dinner!

Then Nick

said, So how many fans

do you think you have? In all our zeal, we'd forgotten about that part.

I figured I had maybe 35 tops (counting relatives,

most of whom would want a free membership).

Nick insisted I must have more fans than that.

But, even if I did, how would I know where they lived?

How could I send them a fan club application?

It was, and still is, every poet's dilemma--

how would I ever make a living?

how would I ever reach my readers?

A SESTINA OF SEPARATE MIX AND MATCH COORDINATES

TO PACK FOR YOUR MLA INTERVIEW

Start with a solid skirt

(A-line or full, depending on your figure), a matching blazer

and a pair of pants--

pleated or perhaps with a cuff.

Then pack a turtleneck and a blouse

so you’ll be ready for any weather. Pump

up your resumé, then put on your low-heeled sensible pumps.

When you get to the interview, skirt

any questions about where you bought your blouse--

your top button securely fastened. Blaze

on with confidence about how you’d teach comp, prepare off-the-cuff

anecdotes about your former students. Soon the committee will be panting

over your creative handouts. Be sure to pantomime

their enthusiasm, gently pumping

them about when they’ll be making their final decision, your handcuffs

tucked in your briefcase to give you confidence. The outskirts

of the conference town await you, ablaze

with dingy night life, where your same blouse

and skirt will become a kinky schoolmarm costume, where blousy

curtains of a cheap hotel will barely disguise the pants

of the man you choose, his cheeks blazing

with shame as you pump

up his grammar. His eyes will skirt

yours when he can’t define the conditional tense, so you’ll cuff

him to the bed, putting the key to your handcuffs

down your blouse

and smoothing your skirt,

watching the lump at the crotch of his pants

slacken. This fantasy will keep you alert as the interviewers pump

up their writing program, their own ties and blazers

dry cleaned to perfection, their own Chevy Blazers

parked safely at home, their cufflinks

in little ceramic boxes atop bureaus, near the spray pump

bottles of their wives’ perfume. Your nipples push against your blouse--

there is something warm and pleasing in the crotch of your panties.

Their lives are the lives you want--a decorative skirt

around a Christmas tree, a blazing fireplace, a ruffled blouse

just for the holidays, lounging pants, a box of cufflinks

for your future husband. His hand up your skirt, your red ink pumping.

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

I leave my pink toes to the pink seahorse facing west

I leave my summer lawn chair to the blue hare who lives in Berlin

I leave the airholes in my sneakers to the library where I read my first book

I leave my pork pie hat to the pig who needs it most

I leave my bunions and onions to the constellations

I leave my empty wallet to the virgins

I leave my dimples to whores who play Uno

I leave my worn-down lipsticks and dried-up nail polish to archeologists

I leave my eyeglasses to the glamorous

I leave my unused shampoo and fig newtons to the turtles who claim them first

I leave the hair in my comb to the mice

I leave the hoopla over Hallmark to the gurgle of shellfish

I leave my last nickel and instant lotto ticket, the silver gray flakes, to

the hall of good luck

I leave my lilac bubblegum with silver trading cards to be divided equally

amont the saints

Denise Duhamel