Break Fast

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.


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