Amber Corrine: 3/4

i don’t think that
odd numbers
ever got a fair shot before
they were separated
and cast adrift—
trapped with a name
that too often
is a synonym for wrong.

maybe i’m too sentimental
or maybe i can’t shake
the instinct to care
too much,
too soon,
but my luck
has always come from
the jagged, sharp
and odd.

in a panic,
i count up by odds.
the numbers on my tongue
now more familiar
than a friend's name.
three, five, seven, nine,
a spell that makes the room
stop spinning,
a chant that keeps my world from
darkening at the edges.

sometimes i wonder
if odd numbers ever
get tired of
having one part
without a match.
i wonder if they
feel lonely like I do,
even with a hand in my own.
i hope they know,
that even though they
can't split evenly
they're whole on their own.

and so am i.