I never thought I’d write

another math poem

after dropping out of

graduate school. But here

I am, asking you

why it might be that the kernel

of a map, a homomorphism,

to be exact, reminds me

of failure. As a first-year PhD

hopeful, I thought of the kernel

as an empty box—that wasn’t quite right.

A friend taught me to look at it

this way: you hold a knife to that box,

and actually, that box is full.

and that knife can obliterate everything

in that box, no matter how convincing

or strong or unique its contents may be.

These days, when I think about kernels,

if I ever think about kernels,

I like to think of them

more like this: the countless ways

I attempt to braid kanekalon hair

into my own, each try ending with bright

fibers unraveling blissfully onto the floor.

Or the ranges of strength with which

I wrap crochet curls around my split locks,

praying that twists find a way to become knots.

Or the bottles and tubs of

gels jellies and snots I trusted

to turn my kinks into waves,

to instill fear in gravity,

not realizing that my plans

were doomed, oriented to nothing

from the very start.