Poem: Abacus

Abacus

Fingers fly across the paper,
the sussuration of thumb and index
conjuring wooden beads in my mind
like a phantom rosary
from the days of meditation and meandering,
a time without numbers save infinity
when succor was measured in clasped hands,
digits, intertwined, restless.

Passion casts aside its many masks,
warrior and widow, grave and graver
like cracking an egg and letting
the yolk fall through the sieve of fingers.
No, it’s better this way, we say
over the pinprick of a candle
a nub in a pool of wax, smoldering
in favor of a little electricity.