Go on, right here, crack
a sleek sweat and just say it. But
first, rim those pink gums with the nub
of your tongue;
parched, like pumice stone
dragged over pine gum. Now outline
that comma over your eye with
a gnawed down
thumb. Without pause, your whole
body in on the job, hold that set, blue
stare, be Papillon watching his
coconut sack
bob in the crush. Get it over with.
Have it done. Hush … eyes off the clock
and do what I do; in a salty,
peculiar, guttural
hum, repeat with conviction, this antiprayer haiku:
Night. November. I
am alone in New Brunswick
and there is no God.
Good, and I do hope
it sticks. A cheque will be fine. Should
problems arise — false options, hollow offers —
count to seventeen and then flatly
decline.