An Algebra of Fifty

Out back between the marvelous
weeds and the volunteer tomatoes,
she is a wind sock in mid-life's rush
hour breeze. Day shuts down
all over. One plus n equals
match strike, doorbell, hush

of the crowd. Voices through a
window across a canyon, voices
across water, crickets in the ivy.
Anise seed on the tongue—texture,
then taste. Regret—taste, then
texture. A letter being opened in
Lisbon. Or not being opened

in the next room. Not the idea of
God, after all, nor God's proximity,
but the light under a door.
The breeze picks up, makes a nest
of her hair, as she solves for n with
all she's got. Behind her, the moon
rises burly, gibbous. The edges of
everything whistle. They almost sing.

Copyright © 2009 Catherine Abbey Hodges All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission