(from The Mobius Strip Club of Grief)
I used sit in the bathroom stall at school
and weep
about math—
But it is possible here
in the nightclub of sorrow
for those who never got it before—
it’s a kind of vanity
you can convene among
with strippers
who fall under the mathematical term “homeomorphism”
which means if you stretch and stretch
you can make a version of yourself out of them;
their topological space is equal to our own,
just as a donut and coffee mug are equal.
Do you understand?
There’s so much to learn.
An even number of nipples
swaying in the strobe-lit main thoroughfare;
the murmuring of understanding,
ah-ha moments of orgasm
like reaching an original state of consciousness,
that brief moment of freedom
from the memory of your education.
The strippers will bend over you
at your tiny round table
breathing cream and sugar coffee into your ear
asking you if you need anything;
rethink this,
check your math—
I’m here for you, the ancestry says
placing a gold star on your cheek
where an F should be.
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