In a rare mood, I am moved today to share an early draft of a poem, together with some only marginally useful photos of the poem’s accompanying artwork. Why not.
March 14th every year
is Pi (π) day, 3.1415 etc. day.
I think of my father, a mathematician,
a guy who liked pie.
I mean, he loved pies, filled with dark cherries,
or apples sweetened with raisins, or lemon.
Today we celebrate math, geometry
to be precise, which, of course,
is impossible with Pi, which reminds me of love,
which is equally impossibly precise, except,
in the pie-slicing world where my
grandfather lived with five children
and one pie, which,
when cut into seven perfect pieces
demonstrated his love with such
precision, in fact, that
not one child could choose
the largest, or the smallest, piece,
or even one piece different enough
from any other to claim first.
Pie day makes me cry.
I stand primarily outside the kitchen,
outside math, but today I still built a pie.
On the page I patched a pie together from triangles
cut from a magazine,
I made a skirt pie, a t-shirt pie,
an earring pie with blue and black
striped and swirly
wedges, an imperfect circle of paper
and grief. These days
when I remember the love that has
left this world, I can almost taste it,
I can feel its warm weight, its
perfect undissectible, indivisible fruit,
I can draw and paint and spell out the love,
I can count on that number
that has no end.
For Elad & Stella