The boy watched algebra unfold
on the blackboard, trying to imagine
how infinity reached past the stars.
Three miles away, his parents
were entering the Plaza del Rey
when the bomb hit.
Sensors calibrated the explosion,
the eye closes on fiery equations
as windows were torn from panes.
The enemy was a straight line.
The boy dreamed of oceans and harbors,
his tenth-grade poster of a sailor navigating blue.
You can’t change time, his parents would say.
The teacher held the chalk like a threat.
How do light and sound become an equation?
At the plaza,
the two bodies held each other,
always equal to.
The boy wrote out the correct answer on the blackboard.
Without knowing why, he erased it.