Poetry | Journal

It is another prime number year
and yea you could say I’m a little on edge about it.
Since ’07 the 29th has cast clouds beyond the edge
of winter bringing in the April showers
a few days earlier every repetition.
I was 13 then, then she was 19, him 23, it was ’17
forgive me for finding patterns where there might not be anything more significant than grief
it’s impossible not to. When calls come in
at odd hours I hold my breath before I answer
just in case those robo-dialars are another loss on the line
my mind does not know how not to expect repetition,
and every time I find myself near crying
over a cruise line time share offer
or an IRS urgent matter, I know
I’m just telling the spammers
this line is viable
but you know what,
call me up.
I’m out here
pacing parking lots just beyond burial plots by myself
because what is being alive if never being alone
with the universe’s biggest unknown
of where they’ve gone if at all and a singular known law of numbers,
that two smaller can’t multiply to create it,
that if someone were out in this wind with me
we couldn’t do anything to rid of this
antiholiday, it is on my calender indefinitely.
The end of March is marred by loss
rather than the promise of spring sun,
and this time around
I’ve been answering all the Nigerian
heirs to crowns of kingdoms
I’ve never heard of and I tell them all
I only accept inheritance sums that are prime
If I’m the big winner I want my pay out in two days,
I ask them what they do with the dead in their cultures, why
not steal those identities
I ask, if they believe
in numbers or patterns
what difference anyway