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The Submission

The Submission The poet is being stalked. The poem is small and exotic—a pantoum, or, perhaps, a haiku. He’s not exactly sure, since he’s always embraced free verse. He tries to keep his distance. But the poem keeps turning up, is always there when he least expects it, passing him notes, leaving him gifts and Xowers. What’s a poet to do? The poet’s wife isn’t having it. The poem’s been sending her letters, too, going on about how wonderful the poet is, how lucky his wife is to have him. The poet’s wife thinks it’s creepy. Just get rid of her, she says. Report her. It’s a violation. She’s way out of line. Days pass without further incident, in their own implacable rhythm. And then she’s in his oYce, the door shut. They’re alone. He knows that she is young enough to be his daughter, but then, she’s very attractive, talking about tension and closure and couplets, those old refrains, her voice low and iambic, her small feet delicate and bare. She’s wearing glitter on her face, neck and hair—a heady metric. 78 He’s doing his best to think of caesuras— his wife (that Balzac novel) or Tolstoy or Henry James—but he’s alone with his poem now, and caught up in enjambment. And is she lifting her skirt, and are they going at it? And who wouldn’t, after all, fall for her— her turning point, her climax? He wonders what he should call her. 79 ...