In Complex Analysis, the tall, Danish professor

scribbles conformal maps in blue and punctured

planes in black. His cursive letters blur together

in a strange, mathematical bruise. He paces

in between jokes about Jacobian derivatives,

reminds us that in this world, the opposite of

constancy is infinity is infinity minus one.

What he leaves on the board is a collage

of the day’s lesson, new skin overlaying

dead cells. The next class tries to decipher his

artifacts. When they can’t, they marvel

at what must be genius.

In Real Analysis, the sly, Romanian

professor starts off strong, labels his graphs,

numbers his steps. He feels shy, foolish even

when he’s become too thorough, too clear.

Soon enough, he’s running: refuses to prove

a damn thing, only says Who stops me?

when traveling from conjecture to function.

At once, the simple line is no longer

simple and no longer a line—but a scaffold

for perfectly suited buildings,

and it is our duty to rupture them.

Most days, he arrives to class

empty handed, leaves the board untouched,

abandons us to chase his wisdom with our own pens

and paper. We marvel, think: This is what genius must be.

In Abstract Algebra, the steady, taut professor

transcribes notes from paper to board

in careful, block letters, coyly slanted.

She scripts the narrative days prior to class

and never lets us threaten it. Tells us

Stop writing—just listen. She reminds us that

these numbers, these numbers we’ve grown to

love are only symbols and the symbols are empty

so the algebraist must assume nothing.

In the hallways, classmates whisper

she’s always so prepared

because she’s German. They make bets

on her recitation skills. I attend her class regularly.

She’d sooner us think she is a bad poet

than let us believe that mathematics

makes for

bad poetry.