Three daughters, two
parents. Five
at dinner. A round
of white plates
on the wooden table.

Minus one parent
equals four, and yet,
each night, the habit
of five forks. Finally,
we get it, four, and then,
minus one daughter
equals three, though
we grow up, that table
no longer set.

When the remaining
parent loses her mind,
the math grows fuzzy.
When one remaining
daughter moves across
the world, again, things
loosen. I sit at another
table remembering
a number only I
can or want to,
the answer maybe
two, less, fewer,
only one
paying attention.