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I gave the dice a shake to see where they would land.
The mathematician told me I didn’t understand—
Where they fall doesn’t matter; the dots on the sides
And their random addition—that’s where your fate resides.
I said, “Excuse me, I’m a poet, and the random is not
What poets need in the construction of their plot.
The dice might fall any which way,
But better they will fall just as I say.”
But the mathematician said the heart won’t ache—
Or hope—if we don’t give the dice a random shake.
I said, “Only the poet speaks of the heart—
Feelings are not the mathematician’s art.
I admit my heart has been broken before—
But not because of a number on the floor.
She could not love me because I could not love her—
Throw the dice again. This will always occur.
I thought I loved her, but then I hated
When I saw what she was. This is fated.”
The mathematician smiled. He threw
The dice. My anxiety grew
As I watched them dance and spin.
Will my poem fail? Will she—
And the mathematician—win?