Function of X

Poem by Jessie Carty. Photo by Jill Burhans.




We grew up east
of everything. We
reckoned no one knew
our names, our town
our composures.
We died daily
of hyperbole
because of course
there are
smaller cities,
tinier streets.

We wanted to be
all of the army
where f(x) = x squared
where an input of 2
meant we were
four, or function
of imaginary friends
who wrote
of our adventures
like an equation
that easily solved

a summer without
camps or family
vacations. We
could solve the “What
You Did Last Summer”
essay by using
our fact. Which
was everyone else’s
definition of fiction.


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