She said toast
and I thought of the possible meanings: toast like food, toast like gone
and then she said eggs, fried, and I thought I knew what everything meant
for a moment. It is often in moments of linguistic confusion that I try
to remember that one plus one is two and two plus two is four
because sometimes, often, I find comfort in numbers
where I can’t in words.
Eight is the largest cube of the Fibonacci sequence and
and when I think of cubes I think of dice and the time
I dreamed I was playing Dungeons & Dragons
for my soul and I couldn’t gain any levels and my soul
kept getting lost on a perpetual loop.
And two is the only even prime number which
makes sense if you think of your lover and can’t
remember what you used to do when you tried to fall
asleep without hearing that someone else was breathing.
Sometimes when eating breakfast I read the sides
of cereal boxes, but not the words, just the numbers,
the irrefutable data that this bowl of cereal is 10%
of my daily serving of calcium.
When I think of cereal I think of Saturday
morning cartoons and commercials that told me
that Froot Loops were part of a balanced
breakfast and I’d feel hungry as I watched the coyote
fail over and over in a perpetual cycle of mistakes.
And one, you know, isn’t the loneliest
number because it has multiplicative identities.
Sometimes, I pause at the doorway, thinking
I’ve forgotten something and then I remember
that there is nothing left to forget.
And when I eat toast, I like to rub the crumbs
between my fingertips until they turn
to nothing, but, of course, they aren’t
nothing they are just infinitesimal.