Today a poem by New York poet, Larissa Shmailo,
that explores aging with word-counts that match the Fibonacci numbers.
I 2 threeeeeeeeee
5 school, ruled 2 three
hate math 8/5 parents split divisor 3 & me
bad teen luck black eight-in-hole no triskaidekaphobe call five ringtones call.
now lucky legal drink I’m old-gold-rolled ready-to-hold I stick on 13 so play vingt-et-un
with me tonight.
still 13 in the soul getting old with a balding working luck. 34 is dirty floor & still behind,
& the legal drink now a double, hit me hit me & no! not prime.
Fivefive, now fivefive, finally loving the mother/other/the 21-still-angry child & forgiving
the serious careerist, so knowing, so sure, so 34. Take our bald inner luck as it comes, let’s
leave the dirty floor alone (why are these aches okay ,why are these losses, these losses,
so possible to endure?) Five years plus ½ century, decoding while eroding, ofivefive.
89 am I 8 or 9? The young ones are 34, my children 55. There are 13 pills in the morning,
13 pills at night. But what, exactly what might happen next? A working soul and another
season’s turn, what else did I ever have? This word is greater than my numbers, the poésie
of my self. I take the garbage out and set it on the street with joy. Tell me your secrets: I am
the one who truly wants to know. Lemniscate, I move toward ∞ today.
"Aging" is from Shmailo's downloadable collection, Fib Sequence, available here.