LXXIV.

The other night it occurred to me that if I were to start rattling
off the numbers for pi now, I wouldn’t need to round up until
my last exhalation.  At the time, the proposition held promise.
Potentially my mind could succumb to the kind of focus required
for such rote calculations.  Granted that’d only get me a finite slice
of the infinite, but that’s a lot.  For a moment I envisioned solace.
3.14 or John 3:16, I’d like to find purpose, some work I can follow
through to the end.  I botch things.  It frightens me into believing
I wouldn’t mind dying here, in this poem.  If the rest of my life
consisted of simply fourteen lines, I believe I could do it well.
Any longer and I am less certain I can maintain this controlled
floundering.  I picture myself perpetually flopping about.  Desire
to live rivals my desire for certainty. I want to cling and I want
to let go.  I want to cross my fingers and see what comes next.

from Red as a Lotus:  Letters to a Dead Trappist
by Lisa Gill