cynthia loves poetry

Mathematics and poetry might seem like unlikely partners, but they share a fundamental truth: both seek patterns in chaos. Sometimes, when emotions become too vast to hold, we reach for numbers—not just to count, but to contain. In my poem “Mathematical Soup,” this intersection of mathematics and meaning becomes a way to process family violence:

The basket slowly empties.
Carrots: one, two, three, five, eight…thirteen?
If uncle’s anger multiplies
how long ’til it reaches infinity?

Notice how the Fibonacci sequence (1,2,3,5,8,13) appears here—a mathematical pattern found in nature, now mapping the unnatural growth of fear. Numbers become both escape and evidence.
Mathematics offers a strange comfort when emotions become too chaotic to contain. Numbers create boundaries, patterns, something solid to hold onto when feelings threaten to overflow.

The Language of Logic
Even the structure of trauma can be mapped mathematically. When I write “Chop. Chop. Now the celery, next the bagies,” each precise action creates order from chaos. The rhythm of counting vegetables becomes a lifeline when Uncle’s anger threatens to drown everything in noise:

Grandma chopping vegetables for soup, slowly 
so slowly, hands swollen raw and red—
knife sharp (due to grandpa's diligence)
board on her lap, carefully balanced.

In this kitchen scene, every measurement serves a dual purpose. We count the vegetables to avoid counting bruises. We time the chopping to avoid timing the outbursts. Each careful calculation—how many carrots, how long to simmer, how many mouths to feed—becomes a shield against chaos. Mathematics gives us the illusion of control when everything else spins into violence.

Calculations as Coping
Numbers give us distance when emotions cut too close. They offer a language stripped of sentiment, a way to document without drowning in feeling:

Soup to feed all six of us, plus temper for topping.
No blood beads skim the surface of our soup—not today.

We turn to mathematics when metaphor isn’t enough. Count the days between outbursts. Measure the space between safety and danger. Calculate the odds of escape. Division becomes more than arithmetic—it’s about separating ourselves from pain. Subtraction isn’t just about numbers—it’s about what’s been taken away.

But even precision has its limits:

Potatoes, tomatoes, peas, yes. Fish, no.
Snap the beans, save the ends for compost, save
all the peelings for compost.

Notice how the word ‘save’ repeats? Sometimes what we’re really counting isn’t vegetables at all—it’s attempts at salvation. Each careful measurement becomes both escape and prayer: If we follow the recipe exactly, if we count everything perfectly, maybe we can cook our way to safety.

Finding Order in Chaos
Each number in “Mathematical soup” is a small rebellion against disorder. Even negatives become powerful:

zero turnips plus zero turnips, equals no turnips today.
Grandma's hands are red, Uncle's face is red.
He shouts loud. She chops wordless.

Mathematics gives us a framework when emotions overwhelm. Through calculations, we attempt to quantify the unquantifiable: How many vegetables make a meal safe? How many minutes until the storm passes? How many steps from kitchen to doorway? Each number becomes a talisman against chaos.

The equation grows more complex: If anger multiplies exponentially, does silence grow at the same rate? If we subtract one violent uncle from a family of six, what remainder are we left with? These aren't just mathematical problems—they're survival calculations.

Beyond Numbers
But sometimes the most precise measurement is silence itself—the space between numbers, the pause between calculations, the moment when mathematics fails and we're left with only the raw truth of what cannot be counted.

In these moments, poetry steps in where mathematics leaves off. Because while we can count the carrots, measure the minutes, calculate the odds, some things defy quantification: The weight of fear in a child's heart. The depth of a grandmother's silence. The infinite distance between what is and what should have been.

Yet we keep counting, keep measuring, keep trying to make sense of what defies logic. Because sometimes the only way to face the immeasurable is to break it down into smaller, countable pieces—one carrot, one minute, one breath at a time.