by Shyla Shehan
I’m easily a square but could draw myself as a spiral. I could pretend to be a straight line or paint my life as an isosceles triangle in perpetual motion. As it spins faster sharp points of its acute angles blur into circles—a border between myself and the outside world. If I was reborn as a star would I have four points or five? Or Six!? Would I be a better poet if I was a broken heart or the zig-zag white space between two separate halves? Hearts don’t ever break in half. It’s never an equitable split. Most shatter into fragments like a round dinner dish dropped on accident. Most broken hearts are accidental and there aren’t any answers between the zig-zag questions of when and where and why. Just possible explanations plausible deniability revisionist history and other algebraic abstractions I haven’t been able to master. Must be a chapter I haven’t gotten to yet. I’ve spent so much time with my face on the floor admiring the rug’s topography because of gravity. I’ve spent so much effort enduring air travel to escape its pulse and pull. So much unwinding mechanics of mathematics that define spacetime and gravity just so I can move on to algebra too. I’ve given so much but no matter what shape I am today it’s never enough.
About the author:
Shyla Shehan is an analytical Virgo who rewrites her bio on a weekly basis. Her most noteworthy accomplishment to date is divorcing her (now former) career as a Healthcare IT Integration Specialist. Since then, she has pledged her undying love and fealty to Poetry but has so far refused to get matching tattoos. Shyla spends most days tending to a healthy household and is currently cultivating the largest golden pothos in captivity. Her full bio and an account of her published work are available at shylashehan.com.