Oscar Keip’s Mathematical Workshop
When my thumbs were strong, I worked

them to the socket, hollowing

clay cradles for thought.

I turned curves sharper

than a rat’s spine, joined seams

fast as a practice kiss in the glass.
Now they call me the ghost.

Each morning, I cough up plugs

of shining plaster. White dust

grains my skin, crusts eyelashes, sets

in little half-moon

parings beneath my nails.
Ten years ago, Keip hooked me

from the field, landed me gasping

on his bench. I learnt to gulp

down chalk, swallow puzzles. Winding

through his grid, I was proud as an eel

doubled into its own knot.
Back then we were in such demand,

our workshop rivalled Brill and Schilling’s.

A prospectus furnished, if desired,

gratis, to tease pennies

from tight fingers and pinched

university purses. Work is scarcer now,
but the students still bring

their designs. Keip decides.

Lotte is the best but the others hate her

because she is a girl. Her strong

thighs against the bench

resist abstraction.
Once I saw Pieter cry. He looked

right through me, crushed

her favourite piece beneath his boot,

choked on the rising dust.

The drains are blocked again.

I try to tell them, but
my throat is parched. Plaster

sets in a solid lump. Stops the flow

or slows it to a trickle, sucks

the pith from nerve and bone. My spine

fades. Light webs my fingers,

splits in the prism of translucent ribs.
No-one hears me whisper how

once, when I pushed my hand

into clay, a white palm touched it,

stole my lifeline. Gave me

a thumb print in return

folded into infinity.