The Math of Love by T. R. Poulson

We’re almost lovers, though nothing
has happened—if nothing is the way
his words hold me close as kiss, as touch
of thighs. We’ve talked about
everything, and now
                         I tell him
about the time I found a calf, licked
and left behind. Searched the herd
to find her mama. Only one cow
had the long pink ribbons of birth
beneath her tail. But she had a calf
beside her. I carried the abandoned
heifer calf to the new mama. Her moos,
mild as milk, told me both babies
were hers. She kept forgetting one
sister, keeping the other.
                              I was a child,
but even then I understood—how easy
to love what I can touch, can’t stop thinking
about the lonely twin, licked and left
asleep, her head curved around her body
until she woke up hungry, alone, not
knowing how to live. Not yet knowing
she was loved.



T. R. Poulson, a University of Nevada alum, lives in San Mateo and delivers for UPS in Woodside, California. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in various journals, including Best New Poets, Gulf Coast, and Booth. Find her at www.trpoulson.com, and on social media as @trpoulson.