Somehow that shriveled arm

seemed the perfect arm

for tracing the odd shapes of geometry

in white on our black chalkboard

showing us a woman could do

this unwomanly thing

and sometimes a girl would let out a giggle

almost like a pig squeak

and our teacher would stop, chalk

in her lifted hand

and her back would stiffen

as she turned and glared at us

then returned

to tracing out her mysteries

we girls thought

meant math is for old maids

dries women out

so they can’t want the only things

that seemed worth wanting—

happy grins in the hallways

and dark back seats where his warm breath

made the short hair on our napes stand up

and so we would come back to be scolded

and any boy in the class

knew better what any kind of triangle was

or how to add the sides up

into answers that were her kind

of “I do”

and some days she put the chalk

down on her desk

and told us how her father

scalded her with boiling water

and her arm contracted in its healing

but we barely listened

because a small white note was moving

across the room 

toward the last seat by the window

and she didn’t notice

since she was back at the blackboard

back at the numbers she loved

and we were girls

who knew nothing at all.