“Coño!”, she said, “i hate this shit”
staring at the numbers
teasing her from the page.
she said she understood the pizza pie
one eighth of something, that made sense
she said she understood a quarter of something
was twenty five cents or percents or some worthless part
she said she understood one half of many things –
she spent half her time with her mom
and the other half in the neighboring city.
“But, coño, this other shit!
This other language of factors,
demonios that reduce things to their lowest forms.
Isn’t that what everyone
is always complaining about?
How crude and simple everything is becoming;
how fucking base it all is?”
As far as she was concerned,
math was a filthy business.
© 2007 henry toromoreno