Learning to Compute

Just turned two and attempting to walk,

I loved crawling fast up my grandfather’s stairs,

the red rug tightly bound to the steps,

the landing above a joyous goal.

He would shout, “Take it easy,”

repeating it thrice in haste.

But I paid no attention

for I so enjoyed the speed,

the excitement of an ambling gait.

Forbidden to enter his room

where the shades were always drawn,

even in the summer heat,

there glowed a strange object,

a thing of wonder in the dark:

a radioactive clock,

its illuminated numbers

a wondrous mystery

closeted in the dark.

The glowing clock hand

imparted an aura of death.

All my life I have been

afraid of numbers:

their immensity,

their finality,

their eloquence

that makes me feel insignificant,

a two-eyed digit

facing a Medusa,

my heart turning to stone.

Yet when I look up

at a dark night sky

away from city glow,

I’m comfortable

with an overwhelming

number of stars and galaxies,

and feel fearless—

like I’m floating

and suckling mother’s milk

in the Milky Way,

exhaling filaments of joy

with nothing to say.