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May 142011
 

by Kasandra Larsen


is more solid than the math of sadness,

negatives that take away when added,

all that’s left once hope subtracts. It’s not


the circumference of a howling mouth

but a rather more elegant answer, found

in the steep triangle of a staircase which


when finally climbed reveals a locked

rectangle staring back, impersonating

a door; the quizzical grip of the mobius


strip, turned over until even questions

are stretched out and sore, the struggle

to connect two points, to intersect,


straight line extending forever in both

directions on a plane where your name

happens never to be mentioned, all those


sharp parallel rays whose endpoints met

inside your hollow gut. What once

filled it up was a stone of hesitation, dark


sphere you now curl into, reclaiming

pre-natal shape, the solution clear long

after the test has ended, years too late.

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