by Anastasia Andersen
_
Numbers are useless
for the angles that bang around the brain
stretch for this bad birth
of triangles.
Instead your mind wants to shape the razor
to a fin
or the undeviating
abyssal black
to just a circle,
a doll’s eye.
The ocean as width
and night as length
you think your mind would calculate
every row of triangles
how the isosceles body gapes—
but it can only name shapes:
circle moon, circle eye,
triangle, triangle
Anastasia Andersen is currently in the University of New Mexico MFA Creative Writing Program. She teaches poetry workshops through the University’s Continuing Education program. Previous publications include Blue Mesa, Heavy Bear, and Puerto del Sol. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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