Rounding Error

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Reading by the author

There's a quiet power to those I saw Jesus in my toast stories.
Stunned devotees posing alongside burnt bread all holy and humorless.
To think, one morning they awoke and willed their way into a miracle,
Buttered the toast just right to coax the savior's silhouette.

Nevermind the incongruous lump
On his arm,
The strange bulge near his ear.
Every miracle is a rounding error—
Need approximated
To the nearest whole number.
A few hundredths off, and you’re left
With hard seltzer,
A surplus of sardines,
Burnt toast—
A choice between waste and resolve.
Everything leads back to this:
Black bits scraped with certitude akin to survival.

Taste, a learned preference.

Poet's Note

I’ve always been fascinated by the folklore of divine encounters, especially ones that occur in decidedly unremarkable contexts. This transition, or more aptly, transfiguration, from the mundane to meaningful requires some level of intention. Even the devout must choose to live by faith—lean into the comforts of conviction or tread the path of skepticism. Ultimately, “Rounding Error” aims to capture the tension of this binary: the familiar crossroads of waste and resolve.