Amy Uyematsu
Unfinished Calculations
How true is the line which keeps threading its way through,
too thin to cipher and with no start or end
when did I first hear a voice that keeps humming in my ear
when does a kiss weigh more than a fist, the kiss outlast the scar
is forgiveness always less than the magnitude of rage
after so many days of walking, what roads does the foot remember
how hard must wings push to lift up the body
how much rain to drown out the clamor of the mind
can anyone measure the diameter of want, the exponential distortion
of the glutted or starving eye
how many times must the human heart break
what is the sound of a singular stone,
spiraling into the center of the pond
where it ripples the surface in concentric circles,
each one drawn into the water's stillness
if each baby begins with one billion brain cells, how many
electrical signals sent out in the dark will be answered,
how many more neurons will die
how slim are the odds that one shall paint, another shall dance
whose unexpected orbits keep intersecting mine
what is the slope of this spine I lean on, the arc of a lover's arm
how soon before the wrinkles on my neck cannot be smoothed with cream
why does the distance between us keep shifting
what is the meaning of one
how many pine needles can sweeten an entire forest
how wide does the sky open or close each time someone prays
what unproven dimension makes God as close as the wind which keeps
stirring my hair, is that why I listen
to the rustling of leaves
how deep is the garden where this heartroot descends
from 1997 Valley Contemporary Poets Anthology.