by | Sep 6, 2017 | Poetry


If I can’t break the 40K salary boundary, I’ll be a petunia.
If no more sleep, then swallowtail cocoons. If tomorrow
I run away to the circus, then tomorrow I run away
to the circus. If bread, then honey. If bowling ball, then lane.
If I bite too hard, stop me. If you stop me, I’ll bite harder.
If there isn’t enough time to dance, I don’t want
to learn quantum physics or organize my retirement accounts.
If your left hand, then my pancreas. If sesame seeds, sing sweetly.
If you wade across the moat I’ve filled with weeping
alligators, then foxes. If not like foxes, then like flamingoes.
If I’m wearing mismatched gloves, I must be doing
something right. If I’m doing something right, I must be
swimming. If I made more money than I could chew, I’d rent
some dolphins and scout the ocean for mermaids. If a mermaid
fell in love with me, I’d be a crown. If you don’t believe me,
ask a mathematician. If this geometry proves true, hire this gem.

Theorem by Amie Whittemore

Photo used under CC.

About The Author


Amie Whittemore is the author of the poetry collection Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press) and co-founder of the Charlottesville Reading Series in Virginia. Her poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Sycamore Review, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.