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April 2018, vol 14 no 1

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Stacy Pendergrast


supermoon waning –
have I lost
my edge

Before entering her office, I rubbed my cold hands. I smoothed my skirt, rehearsed a smile.

On her desk spread a buffet of my CV pages and an uncapped yellow highlighter. Scribbles in margins.

“You’ve taught composition – a lot,” she said, her glasses sliding down her thin nose. Did she smack her lips? “I can load you up – four, five comp classes – as long as you are willing to drive to different campuses,” she said, her grin tight. She paused, nodding, as if to engage my head to bob in sync.

“I know the call was for adjuncts . . . ,” I began. I took a breath, leaned forward, exhaled my practiced pitch about why they needed me as a full-time professor. As I waxed, she collapsed the pages into one clean-edged stack, whisked them into a stiff manila folder. I heard the click of the highlighter cap, felt the exchange of hot and cold air as she rose.

sliver moon –
the silhouette
of what’s left unsaid