Even the sun was uncomfortable
the last time we picknicked by the lake,
stale wine and an aging cake
between us. I never realized what stable
meant until I saw a band of nuns
subtracting color from the day.
They had their math straight.
Sometimes I wish I had been one,
secure with something constant.
Often I'd miscalculate
the variables, promises you seemed to make
before saying, 'This isn't what I meant.'
My mistake. Trying to solve problems too thick
for formulas. A permanent failure at artithmetic.
(Yemassee Journal, Vol. XV, No.1, Fall 2007)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a lovely poem - the nuns got their math right, subtracting colour from the day adding fragrance to their soul