Fractions

Five out of four people have trouble with fractions.
             — Stephen Wright

Remember Solomon from the Bible? 
Well, he was wrong: anything 
can be divided, even a mother’s 
body, without prompting virtue 
in at least one of her children. 

She’s dead, of course, unlike 
the infant in the story, and in theory 
no more damage can be done 
to her, but her memory is whole; 
her spirit is whole. Who wants
 
another round of motherhood, 
being ripped to shreds 
by the snarling wolves of want? 
Who wants to spend eternity 
in so many dens at once?
 
The crematorium is king now, 
dispensing its fiery wisdom 
or what passes as wisdom: the body 
without shape. Like cockroaches
after the apocalypse, acrimony

shall prevail. Bring in the lawyers. 
“You will each get one-fifth 
of your mother’s remains.” Although 
every child says he should get all 
of her, my claim—I know, I know—

seems more reasonable. After all, 
I protected her with my skull, 
with my ten-year-old bones. 
Would that she were a fifth 
of Jack Daniels! We’d sit at a bar 

until we were toast, burnt 
beyond recognition, which is 
just how she liked her toast. 
She was the one who taught me 
fractions, a family’s improper ones. 

Ralph James Savarese | Scan
Contents | Mudlark No. 82 (2025)