“How can you love yet mock me so?” A pout
on her moist lips, “That’s what I'd like to know.”
He puffed his chest with air then let it go
and pushed her toward the bed. “Well, if you doubt—”
She scratched and wrestled free.  He laughed, “Such scenes
you Gentiles make! All right, I’ll tell you
a fourth time. I’m a hairy Jew who
can slay or screw a thousand Philistines.”

Is the strength resolved in sweetness holy?
She drew her sleek legs apart so slowly
he couldn't stop himself but thrust aside
the samite from her scented thighs. Killers
armed with scissors likewise spread them wide,
trusting pillow talk and gods on pillars.

First class. Think of it as the opening 
gambit on a blind date, pushing a pawn.
On one side, skeptical sizing up, some
shyness; on the other, veteran’s déjà vu,
girding up loins with a hint of joy and
a perilous soupçon of ingratiation.

Say it goes well.  Next comes a brief, ringless 
engagement, a week or two of provisional 
acceptance, even some slight affection. 
The first assignment marks the wedding when  
no one fails.  Discussions lag but aspiration
remains, not yet having collided with effort.   

Honeymoons are exempted from hard   
labor.  This one expires at the midterm 
where answers can be right but also, alas, 
wrong.  Now some turn sullen and accusing 
as if they’d been seduced, betrayed.  With a fistful 
of failures marriage proper properly begins.

And so it goes for a couple months; lectures, 
classes, office hours congealing into routine. 
Some attend out of devotion, even love; others
come doggedly because it’s their job to join
the middle class.  To keep the spark aglow, to 
tamp down tedium, there are jokes, movies.

There will be one more essay, thirteen challenging
prompts, hazards devised to inspire inspiration—then,
finally, a final class, final exam.  For many, the
divorce will be bittersweet and amicable, to some a relief.
No telling what epiphanies and passions might 
be recollected if, years on, dusty albums are reopened.