Today, in honor of an event I’m hosting in which we will all read our terrible high school poetry, I present a poem about formal logic. It’s sort of cheating, but because my entire day was focused on writing, I’m going to let it slide.
The most romantic thing I’ve ever heard
was said to me by a balding man
with chalk-smeared hands
in a room shaped like a tipped-over refrigerator.
“A if and only if B.”
Then he wiped his hands on his jeans
creating little rivulets of white
in the black folds.
What struck me most
was not that
“If A is true
and B is true
then both are true,”
but what I remember best instead
are the blue veins under my skin,
the frayed edges of my nails,
the holes in my beat-up black sneakers,
“If A is false
and B is false
then both are true.”
“But this won’t be on the test,” he added.
“Biconditionals are superfluous.”