The Mathematics of Loss

Katherine McLeod Searle

In the quiet hours, wrapped
in a quilt whose history exceeds mine,
listening to the wind churn
between the houses
in measured surges,
I count in a precise voice.

Two columns—
wholly disparate
and incongruent—
yet of the same set.

Loves.
Losses.

In my mind,
I place them
on a number line.
To have value
is to have volume
and sequence.
So much easier
to substitute numerical value
for chameleon blue eyes,
piercing and immutable.

Points on a line.
Clear, distinct,
not given to memory fugues.
No blurring of the edges—
this one's sensitive hands
with that one's rough touch.

-8, -2, -1, 0.
The wind batters the house
in a frenzy of power,
and I meticulously place points
on my number line,
wrapped in the mathematics
of loss.

Katherine McLeod Searle