Let’s say that in this equation, x equals listening.
            And y equals the velvet of your hand
                        on my inner knee. And z equals

a widening gap in the clouds where the blue leaks through.
            And then p is the tongue. And q is a road of 379 miles,
                        and r is the rate of what a song does in an empty room.

I don’t know. What I’m saying is that I’ve been trying
            to solve the problem, but the variables
                        keep changing. And where does dirt come into this?

Where the Brazil nut, the pelican with wings dredged in oil,
            the wildfire devouring McKenzie Springs?
                        My paper is covered in pink eraser rubbings—

breathe, I think. Go slow. I try to remember the rules.
            But already x equals independence.
                        And y equals flaxen light. And z equals

the river, swollen. And u
            is my hands in your hair. And f equals
                        a dial tone. M equals fear. And j equals

the way I sometimes imagine an answer might
            appear if I try hard enough. And o is the sound of ripening peaches.
                        No, o is the spider web in the pane.

No, o is oh, god, I don’t know. And k is the velocity
            of a falcon when it falls, falls, falls
                        and then surges up just before hitting earth.

And b is the room still doused in darkness
            before we slowly open the blinds
                        to reveal twice as much sky

as the equation called for, and so many ravens.
            Nothing is ever equal. And already
                        the formula is not the same as it was

one yes ago, one love ago, one here ago,
            one x ago when x equaled morning
                        and y was a siren and z was slowly dissolving into white.

TAGS: , ,

ROSEMERRY WAHTOLA TROMMER is a “chanteuse of the heart,” says poet Art Goodtimes. She lives in Southwest Colorado, where she served as San Miguel County’s first poet laureate and directs the Telluride Writers Guild. She teaches poetry for Think 360, The Aesthetic Education Institute of Colorado, Ah Haa School for the Arts, and Camp Coca Cola. Her poetry has appeared in O Magazine and on A Prairie Home Companion. Her poetry collections include The Miracle Already Happening: Everyday life with Rumi, Intimate Landscape, Holding Three Things at Once (Colorado Book Award finalist) and If You Listen. She performs with Telluride’s eight-woman a cappella group, Heartbeat, and sings nightly for her two children, Finn and Vivian. She and her husband, Eric, own a 75-acre organic fruit farm, where she practices the art of letting go. For seven years, she has written a poem a day, and every day she reads many more than that. Favorite one-word mantra: Adjust. Her Web site is www.wordwoman.com.

One response to “So I Keep On Reckoning”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *