A Description of an Equation

by Dorsía Smith Silva

You give me 3/8 of you, but I 

want at least 4/5. I want 

 

the gaping parts that are blushed away, 

all of the alien leftovers, and stale 

 

crusts from sandwiches. Give me 

the lonely lint in your front 

 

pockets, the extra blue buttons 

hinged in the inner flaps. I want

 

your back and forth and back 

again palindrome of webbed body 

 

veins, half-splotched shorthand scribbles 

turned sideways on Post-its. You’ll be 

 

the perfect fraction that forms and reforms,

in which I take more than what it gives.