Because You Asked How I Could Stand Math

Do you remember the first time you ate a grape? Not those waxy

green rugby balls at the supermarket, a grape. Fresh plucked off

the vine, dying summer drenching its skin. You bit down expecting

sweetness and the sour shivered through you. Like clacking your

molars on a thunderbolt. You knew-not everything, no, just this

one thing a little better: the way a grape tastes. The way it

shimmers. The hornet-sting of tartness, the newness, the revelation.

So little you understood. So little you still understand. An inkling.

Just more than nothing. Enough for you to pluck a second.