we don’t do math on sundays
infinite by my count, which is admittedly impatient & more often
than not incorrect, there are possibly, precisely infinite manners of love
& taking care, among them—asking how many apples & are you okay,
a breath at the door & my softest once through, what it speaks to listen,
how it smarts to speak, to say, for instance, say it—how the hour here
finds you, however strained, strange or stumbling sideways toward self-
determination, there is no suffering on earth that cannot be shared.
no strange bird sings alone. this is how i say you are not now, nor will
you ever be alone. it’s true, a feeling is not a fact. i find it no less real.
see: my disastrous attempts to feel whole in the morning. a hand
placed on your back. five minutes of silence for the first time today,
an end to the silence, a return to me, home. anywhere you are,
where i am too seems statistically improbable & possible as anything.
we could have been any way, any place, any time & we are these two,
with so many ways to say i am here.
Kristin Lueke
Kristin Lueke is a Chicana poet living in northern New Mexico. She is the author of the chapbook (in)different math (Dancing Girl Press), recipient of the Morris W. Kroll Poetry Prize from Princeton University, and a finalist for the 2024 Porter House Poetry Prize. She's been nominated for a Pushcart, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net. Her work's appeared in Sixth Finch, Wildness, HAD, Maudlin House, Frozen Sea, and elsewhere. She writes at theanimaleats.com.
Why Martheaus Loved It:
After reading “we don’t do math on sundays,” I told Taylor, “It's hard to make love poems fresh.” You say silly things like that when you co-run a lit magazine. I've slept since then, and I think a more accurate depiction of this poem isn't freshness (like newness), but a reframing of the familiar. Love isn't like a dingy fruit bowl where we're constantly looking for the freshest bananas to replenish it. "we don't do math on sundays" is thoroughly investigating a relatable intimacy. We can recognize the small inside moments that only a couple would know in lines like "a hand placed on your back" and "a breath at the door." We can recognize that urge to ache alongside our loved ones in lines like "there is no suffering on earth that cannot be shared."
"Voice" is one of those funny words we use when talking about writing. It's a can't-put-my-finger-on-it word that isn't as direct as something like mathematics. But when I reread this poem, its voice seems to be such a clear draw--a clear reason why it works. This is probably my favorite moment of the poem: "it’s true, a feeling is not a fact. i find it no less real. / see: my disastrous attempts to feel whole in the morning. a hand / placed on your back. five minutes of silence for the first time today." It's quiet, you can feel the breath with how closely intimate it is, and how it is subtly utilizing that very direct/objective language we typically associate with mathematics (I was thinking "see value X for the solution" speak).
Oh and one more thing, I F-ing hate math. And, for a brief moment, Kristin’s poem made me give a damn about it.
Interview:
1. I'd love to know the superhero origin story of this poem. Particularly, where the concept using infinity and probabilities in this form came from. Personally, I really appreciate how math can play with vast possibilities and precision.
zeno was an ancient greek idiot who made up a bunch of a paradoxes, famously one that posits because there are infinite halves between two points in space, the distance between them can, theoretically, never be bridged. so if i want to reach you where you are, i first must walk half that distance, and before i can get halfway there, i must get a quarter of the way there, and before i can get a quarter of a way there, i must get an eighth of the way there, and so it goes on and on interminably, before reaching the dire conclusion that distance is infinite and progress therefore an illusion.
i'll concede that getting close to another person, in all their complexity and mystery, is a herculean task, but i'd never let something like a philosophical theory that weaponizes math to cynically imply there's no point in trying get between me and my hunger for intimacy, my need to be near people, to go touch that tree over there, or one day become more than i currently am. i'm down for infinite tasks, this is how i tell you i love you. by trying, against all odds, to understand you, and to be understood.
so i wanted to write a poem about these infinite attempts, our unending labor to take care of each other, because it is hard work and it requires energy and that energy deserves to be seen, honored, and sometimes maybe, redirected. i don't believe people who say relationships should be easy. people are fucking difficult. we contradict and obscure ourselves, we try to protect ourselves from intimacy, hold others at arm's length while crying out to be loved. we test each other—if i put up this obstacle, will you love me enough to cross it? will that prove i am worthy of witness and care? i'm willing to do the lifelong work of love—i'll never stop trying to cross that infinite distance, but let's also remember to take it easy on each other, maybe one day a week. let's call it sunday.
2. My notes assumed this was a love poem, but I may have been stretching. How do you see that label on this poem? There's so much more than just "I love you"--the speaker seems to be grappling with their needs too.
this is one of my more romantic poems—i'm interested in love as ongoing exchange, as attention, as holy work. it's not just about the way my beloved makes me feel, it's about me risking myself, allowing myself and others our weaknesses and imperfections, our desires and, yes, our needs, which will be at times confounding but no less valid. i'll admit i was, for a sadly long time, disgusted by my own needs. i didn't want to have them. i didn't want to feel beholden to another person, i didn't want to be vulnerable enough to say i need help, or softness or something to eat. yet at the same time i've wanted to be trusted with other people's needs, to be reliable, dependable and generous. but that's not really love, is it? it's not exactly reciprocal—it's a power move, it's unfair. i have found—with so much gratitude for my person's patience, obstinance, and curiosity—that the more i've struggled to understand and articulate my needs, the sweeter and more equitable the small world between us becomes, the better i'm equipped to show up to the task of being a whole person, capable and deserving of good loving.
3. "no strange bird sings alone." I mean that's a gut punch. There are a lot of lines about togetherness and resilience in this poem. Why were those necessary for the speaker?
i think sometimes we—and by we i mean everyone—seek solace or superiority in the idea of our uniqueness, which is all well and good for one's self-esteem, but it may tip into alienation. am i the only one who thinks [something six million other souls are also thinking right now]? but maybe it's a gambit, one of those tests we create for each other. maybe we don't actually want to believe we are singular in our thoughts and feelings, but rather we're seeking comfort and connection—please god, tell me i'm not alone with this. i've learned i'd rather just say "tell me i'm not alone." the poems are practice, i suppose—a way to notice all the ways i am human, that others are too, all the ways the world is the world and yet we go on, and isn't that interesting or infuriating or energizing? could a poem be a reminder to put one foot in front of the other, no matter the impossible task of it, to say i love you as many times, in as many ways as you can think of today? what if a poem could do something like that—wouldn't you try to write another one too?