In tennis there’s Love in a zero, But not in Roman numerals. That’s a digit in absentia; Love is absent there. Nulla, void – Null: a void. A trap to now avoid.
Nought’s had: nothing gained. But how could you ever feel loss When there’s no number for “nothing remains”? That explains a lot.
But the hard-inked figures will try to linger, The ones of greater magnitude. They’re etched into my sight, Like when you look out of the window at the sky And then close your eyes, And the sun is just a cigarette burn And the birds are not quite right anymore: Just the ghostly dreams of flight.
1-0. Was that the last score? One-nil searching for one-love, Somewhere within the kisses that signed off the final chapter: XXX. Perhaps that was just the number 30. I don’t know. I don’t count.
II. The binary sum of two fractioned parts. Is “I” just looking for my other half? A companion to sit by the hearth of isolation, Debating Aristophanes’ theory of split creation.
A heart for a heart, A mind for a mind, A two-faced Janus wanting an eye for an eye?
I for I. I fight for myself: My name is my war cry.
I equals One, And I am One already. There’s no vacuole inside me; No empty cavity Shaped like the fear of the lonely.
To be half-hearted is a choice, not a destiny.
So if a soul seeks a mate, It’s not to find what’s missing: It’s a constant mission To realise we are not made In the image of ‘incompletion’.
I am not L per cent without you: From my birth to my death, I am always going to be C. In my language that’s a V for victory.
Just the year yet another member of humanity Was spat out fully equipped with everything they need: To push the boundaries, To journey back to the centre of constancy, And to survive in a society That thrives on our fear of inadequacy.
Perhaps zero should be my currency.
Because in tennis there’s Love in a zero. And your hatred means nothing to me.
© Georgina Barley 2016