" "

I know you iced my birthday cake with theorems
of converse roots. The prime power
of the n^th cube root left a trail of decimals all
over the white tablecloth mother gifted us
for harvest Friday. The obtuse angle rolled
into my cuticle-powder case—such a rigorous
study of double radii, indeed—and filigreed
incomparable results on all my nails. They're
lucent now, like your masala omelets, like
our albino college-mate who studied trigonometric
postulates at the Madras Café every day
while really—I knew—mapping the coordinates
of our sugar-scooping axes. What a pity
that young lovers (such as us or the Armenian
churchgoer couple) ignored her notes;
I know now that they were filled with brackets
of deep parabolic stains, cancelled binaries and a quadratic
formula for every pastry-frosting we sampled.

 

 

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