Learning Long Division 

by Lisa Cihlar

If you knew the exact moment when the time ahead of you was equal

to the time behind you, would you change direction?  Drive west

and for every right turn make two lefts?  On back roads in flat states where

timothy grass and purple clover clot the roadsides, hang your hand

out the window, feel the slap of weeds on your palm, the occasional wetness

from spittle bug froth?  Get angry. 

Tell mothers that their children are beautiful.  Never tell a lie. 

Join the end of every parade you come upon.  Throw candy, the good

kind that sticks in the teeth, like caramels that can be sucked for hours.  

Drink strawberry malts in small town parlors painted pink and yellow.

If you knew that you were going to die in your sleep would you buy

new sheets, wash them every day, hang them outside to dry, perfumed

by new mown grass and west wind with rain running ahead?

Write a confession that spills everything, lies and stealing and however

many of the seven sins you can remember, then do them over again

to make sure you got it right the first time.  Pray.  Assume there is

a God.  Then assume there is not.  Tell a pastor that religion is the cause

of most of the wars in the world, but forgive him.  Leave offerings

in collection baskets and food pantries.  Wear red panties and white

shorts and walk with a hip sway that says fuck me.  And do it in a bed,

in the woods, on a beach before a storm when waves crash louder

than you moan and shout.  Kiss your dog between the eyes.  Slow

your breathing.  Give everything away, crawl to the graveyard, hold up

your arms until wrens land on your fingers, sparrows pluck your hair

to line their nests

and make new music.

* * * * *

"Learning Long Division" was previously published in Wordgathering here:  http://www.wordgathering.com/issue22/poetry/cihlar.html.