Untitled || Callie S. Blackstone

I was never good at math.
The teacher would lean over my desk
navy sweater, navy
maroon alternating tie

The smell of fresh yellow
pencils and long division.
This goes into this,
and as a result–

the only numbers I know
are ones that measure
distance, angles.
For example,

you sat four feet and three inches
from me, or, approximately three
plastic chairs. Do you want me
to convert it again?

The angles of your arms
were more difficult to calculate:
advanced material.
I forgot numbers.

The circumference
of your soft, pink
mouth. The opening

The number of seconds
the sigh took:
1, 2, 3

Callie S. Blackstone writes both poetry and prose. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Lily Poetry Review, Rust+Moth, Prime Number Magazine, West Trestle Review, and others. Callie is a lifelong New Englander. She is lucky enough to wake up to the smell of saltwater and the call of seagulls everyday. You can find her online home at calliesblackstone.com.


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