< Issue 6 >
Passing a Math Course
by William Doreski
Back in school I can’t read
the blackboard, can’t understand
math problems shaped like footballs,
dirigibles, Freudian cigars.
“Translate the following statement
into algebra: God is Woman,
hear her roar.” I haven’t a clue,
my pencil point dull as soap
and my body still tingling
because in the stairway a woman
grabbed my hand and pressed it here
and there to savor the textiles
adorning her decorative parts.
I’d like to convert that thrill
into so many perfect numbers
for extra credit. But meanwhile
I’m stumped by this problem: “A man
greets in Polish; another man
farewells in Mandarin; a third
curses the other two in Latin.
Balance this tripartite equation
with X as the gross federal debt.”
My hands quake like toads in thaw.
The classroom hums. The teacher
leans over me, his drool so acid
it scorches my sorry blank page.
He sympathizes but regrets
my failure. Perhaps I’ll withdraw
from his course and weep alone
in the reeking cafeteria.
No, I’ll solve at least one problem.
“If George equals Fred and Fred
equals Charles, why doesn’t George
equal Abraham?” I thrust
my pencil between eye and eyelid
and lobotomize an answer:
“George doesn’t equal Abraham
because one is a motorcycle
and the other a yellow tulip.”
The teacher beams. He credits himself
with my insight. Everyone passes
the test, while in the corridor
that obvious woman blesses
herself for engineering
the conditions of my success.
Passing a Math Course
by William Doreski
Back in school I can’t read
the blackboard, can’t understand
math problems shaped like footballs,
dirigibles, Freudian cigars.
“Translate the following statement
into algebra: God is Woman,
hear her roar.” I haven’t a clue,
my pencil point dull as soap
and my body still tingling
because in the stairway a woman
grabbed my hand and pressed it here
and there to savor the textiles
adorning her decorative parts.
I’d like to convert that thrill
into so many perfect numbers
for extra credit. But meanwhile
I’m stumped by this problem: “A man
greets in Polish; another man
farewells in Mandarin; a third
curses the other two in Latin.
Balance this tripartite equation
with X as the gross federal debt.”
My hands quake like toads in thaw.
The classroom hums. The teacher
leans over me, his drool so acid
it scorches my sorry blank page.
He sympathizes but regrets
my failure. Perhaps I’ll withdraw
from his course and weep alone
in the reeking cafeteria.
No, I’ll solve at least one problem.
“If George equals Fred and Fred
equals Charles, why doesn’t George
equal Abraham?” I thrust
my pencil between eye and eyelid
and lobotomize an answer:
“George doesn’t equal Abraham
because one is a motorcycle
and the other a yellow tulip.”
The teacher beams. He credits himself
with my insight. Everyone passes
the test, while in the corridor
that obvious woman blesses
herself for engineering
the conditions of my success.
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