Old Math

Let me show you how
to count, Alana.
I slide colored beads across
an abacus bar,
begin the lesson,
One and point
to a red wooden marker.
My daughter asks, What
are we counting, Mommy?
Oh, we can count
anything you like:
apples, boxes, kittens.

All the while, I count
the number of death
poems I have written
in the last year.
My way of adding
personal stones
for friends and family who
have gone before me.
I am tallying the number
of granite pebbles in my heart.

As if she reads my thoughts,
my little girl blurts out,
My grandfather named Earl did die.
She tells me this every day.
Her preoccupation has become mine,
or maybe it is the opposite.
Will you die one day, Mommy?
I cannot answer. I stare
into the future.

No matter how I calculate
analytical arithmetic fails
me. I cast all formulas aside
for simple abacus subtraction.
No matter which direction
I slide the beads
they are gone.

Peggy Heitmann has published poems in The Monterey Poetry Review, The Rockford Review, Heron Clan, among others. She considers herself both word and visual artist. Peggy lives in Raleigh, NC area with her husband and two cats.