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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